


Storm

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bit of a case, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Gen, Misfits Crossover, Superpowers, Warning for stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While uncovering the mystery of the 'Did you miss me' broadcast at the end of season 3, Sherlock and John are struck by lightning during an unnatural electrical storm and inexplicably survive. While dealing with the chaos caused by the return of an unexpected foe, Sherlock, John and Mary must struggle through a personal crisis while also discovering these bizarre superpowers everyone seems to be developing.</p>
<p>Crossover with the British show 'Misfits', though knowledge of the show is not necessary to follow this story. I'm just borrowing their ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cornered

_September 23, 2013_

Sherlock hated wearing prosthetic noses. He resisted the desire to scratch at it as he entered a smoky room in the illegal gambling club. His fingers twitched with want of a cigarette. Seated at the poker table, about to start a new game, was one Steven Mitchell, ex-CIA and ex-right-hand-man to James Moriarty. Obscured behind cheap sunglasses and a dark hood, Sherlock approached a gruff, bearded player – _fisherman, married, keeps touching trouser pockets (i.e. wallet): losing streak, twitchy (looking for an out), wife doesn’t know he’s here, thinks he’s cheating_ – and leant down to murmur in his ear. 

“Allow me to play this next round, hm?” He discreetly passed a hundred dollar American bill into the man’s hand and tried not to breathe in the rancid scent of fish and body odor. Surprised, the man raised his eyebrows, but Sherlock knew he wouldn’t refuse. Silently, the man stood and vacated his seat to the left of Mitchell, which the disguised detective claimed coolly. His next inhalation was tainted by a waft of menthol smoke curling from Mitchell’s Nat Sherman cigarette, causing his inner purist tobacconist to wrinkle his nose slightly in disgust. 

Once situated, the dealer finished shuffling and began handing out cards. As the game began, Sherlock lowered his hood, clearing his peripheral vision and revealing long curls dyed a reddish brown and tied at the nape of his neck. His poker skills, like his detective skills, were quite impressive when he cared to employ them, but it didn’t matter; he wasn’t here to win, he was here to observe. 

As the game progressed, Sherlock caught the stealthy movement of a card being pulled from a hidden pocket and being swapped with one already in play. The detective leaned over slightly to muffle a fake cough into his inner elbow and – yes – the switched card was identical save for the slightest crease in the upper right corner. Suspicion confirmed, Sherlock ran through his deductions of Mitchell’s crime in his head, paying the game only minimal attention: Ronald Adair, Caucasian, aged twenty-three, card-player, technology idiot and cat-owner had been killed by a shot in the head through the window of his second floor bedroom, while apparently counting money and making a list of initials and sums. After having followed Mitchell for some weeks, Sherlock was well aware of Adair’s connection to Mitchell as a common playing partner. The killing shot, originating from a silenced, semiautomatic .45 ACP rifle, also known as the CIA-Rifle, could be the work of none other than trained assassin Steven Mitchell. Upon breaking into Mitchell’s flat, Sherlock had quickly located the murder weapon and then proceeded to head for the ‘Scorpion’s’ gambling club, of which Mitchell was a regular. Currently, Mitchell was undoubtedly cheating, both switching cards and card counting. Though, to be fair, Sherlock was doing the latter, as well, though more due to an inability to not notice than for dishonest purposes. 

Logically, as Adair would often be in close proximity to Mitchell while gambling, the young man would have noticed Mitchell’s cheating. Strangely moral for a member of an illegal club, Adair had threatened to expose Mitchell if he did not leave the club, and then had proceeded to take account of what money he himself had unfairly earned through association with Mitchell, which he had planned to repay as evidenced by his activities just before being murdered.

Mitchell had killed Adair, the evidence Sherlock had uncovered was solid and the crime was enough for a life sentence, if not worse, considering the country they were in. All he had to do was apprehend the man and explain it to the bumbling police force and Mitchell would no longer be an issue. Unnoticed behind his sunglasses, Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in relief. 

Predictably, the game ended with Mitchell taking all the winnings. He did not stay to boast though, simply collected his cash and exited the room, which Sherlock deemed a smart move considering the hostility angled his way. 

Swiftly, Sherlock followed the man and approached to discreetly mutter, “Might I have a word, sir?” 

“No, you might not,” Mitchell replied in his bland American accent. “The game is done and you lost. These winnings are mine fair and square.”

Sherlock hummed, considering. “See, Ronald Adair didn’t think so, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

That got his attention.

“What do you know of Ronald Adair?” he murmured, suddenly tense. They had stopped behind a stack of shipping boxes which provided some privacy.

“Nothing his habits, murder scene and corpse couldn’t tell me. Oh, and I’m sure the police will have found that sniper rifle in your flat by now, as well. Fine quality, that one. Is it the same as the one you used during your time in the CIA?”

“You’re bluffing,” Mitchell snarled, suddenly turning and taking an aggressive step forward. Now face to face, Mitchell hesitated, confusion flickering across his face.

Sherlock _was_ bluffing – he hadn’t actually informed the police of anything yet – but he was also not prone to nervousness under intimidation tactics and wasn’t about to let the criminal simply walk away. “Am I? I’m actually quite sure the police are on their way as we speak, but if you calmly surrender, you could make this marginally less irritating for everyone involved.” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mitchell spat in recognition, his straight, but yellowing teeth flashing as he snarled. “Should have known that stunt from the roof was nothing but a trick.” The fury in Mitchell’s eyes was paralleled perhaps only to that which had shown in John’s eyes that time Sherlock had used the kettle for that human foot experiment. The whole foot hadn’t fit, so Sherlock had had to chop it up into little pieces and drop each chunk in one at a time. The results had been inconclusive and the aftermath decidedly not worth a repeat attempt. 

The sudden memory was so unexpected that Sherlock was distracted from Mitchell’s movement until hands were grabbing, pulling and savagely knocking his head against an exposed metal pipe. Pain exploded from the side of his skull, fortunately just missing his temple, and his ears started ringing. Actually that might have been the pipe vibrating from the shock. Sherlock felt himself jerked away in preparation for another blow, but managed to rip his head from the strong grip in order to deliver a head-butt to Mitchell’s nose. The resulting crunch and howl were well worth the additional head trauma. 

Before Mitchell could recover, Sherlock was pushing him back and slipping handcuffs from the pocket of his dingy sweats. He was about to snap one manacle around Mitchell’s wrist when the criminal’s CIA training apparently kicked in, because from one second to the next, Sherlock suddenly found himself face down on the ground, his arm held awkwardly enough to risk breaking and a knee lodged painfully into his back. He’d have sworn if he could breathe. For a sniper his hand-to-hand combat skills were surprisingly impressive. 

“Hey! What’s going on back there!” The sound of approaching feet sounded like heaven.

Sherlock took the opportunity to pull in as much air into his lungs as possible, tasting menthol smoke on his tongue, in preparation for a shout and Mitchell was forced to let go of his arm to cover his mouth. Arm free, Sherlock snatched the handcuffs from where they’d fallen, drove his elbow into Mitchell’s ribs and – Mitchell didn’t even budge. _Bloody hell_ , these CIA types were tough. 

The voices were right next to them then and hands were grabbing for them both. Mitchell lashed out, giving Sherlock the chance to finally slip free. As more hands grabbed at them, Mitchell seemed to realize his bleak situation and bolted. Ripping his arm free from a beefy grip, Sherlock pursued him. This case was turning out to be even more dangerous than Sherlock had expected – John would have loved it. 

Mentally shaking his head to clear it, Sherlock rounded a corner in time to see Mitchell violently shove a rusted shelving unit in order to get to the nearest exit. The sudden jerk caused the industrial piping upon the shelves to shift and with the moving weight the shelves began to collapse. Hundreds of kilograms of factory equipment collapsed on top of the sniper, but Sherlock did not stay for fear of the others catching up and grabbing the detective. Sherlock bolted to the right, skirting around metal and boxes to escape by the delivery entrance instead. 

Out in the night, Sherlock continued to run until his head was pounding and it felt like he might collapse. He’d have to remember to eat and drink tomorrow – his transport was beginning to protest. Slowing to a walk through the seedy neighbourhood, Sherlock knew better than to pull out his burner phone – muggers were an inconvenience he did not want to deal with at the moment. He waited until he’d shut himself into the disgusting two room flat he was currently holed up in and then made a desperate-sounding phone call to nine-one-one, in a high and shaky voice, of a shooting in the neighbourhood. They’d figure it out before long and now that Mitchell was dead, Sherlock really couldn’t care less. That mission done, he would rest here overnight and attempt to nurse his own injuries before moving on to the next section of Moriarty’s web.

***

_January 12, 2015_

Mycroft Holmes was in one of the offices in his home, dealing with highly sensitive business, when there was a knock on his door. 

“Yes, what is it?” He called a tad impatiently.

The heavy oak door opened to reveal his assistant with her eyes on her new BlackBerry. “They’ve found the source of the message, sir.”

Mycroft paused in his work. “Inform Sherlock. And that Detective Inspector he is so fond of. Oh, and he might as well invite John Watson along, too, if he so wishes. I’m much too busy to leave the office at the moment. He knows the stipulation.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and, still tapping away on that little keyboard, departed, closing the door behind her. 

Mycroft vaguely wondered if John Watson would be willing to leave his very pregnant wife in order to accompany Sherlock on yet another case and then considered the implications if he was. Mycroft then realized he was musing over the silly dramas of his little brother and his friends and firmly made himself refocus on the spy issue with Russia.

***

John’s cab pulled up just in time to watch Sherlock, accompanied by a stern-looking hulk of a man, bald and of African descent, enter the addressed building after Greg, a couple others from the DI’s team behind him. The building was obviously in the middle of construction and was surrounded by police tape surveyed by constables, curious onlookers watching from across the street. John quickly paid the cabbie and jogged up, spotting Donavon and nodding at her.  


“Doctor Watson,” she greeted, much more demure since Sherlock’s return, as she permitted him to enter the scene.  


He entered the building, which smelled strongly of paint and plaster, and sidled up next to Sherlock as the group began ascending the stairs. Lestrade turned his head and nodded at him. “John.”  


John nodded back. “Lestrade.” The DI was on duty, after all. Still looking ahead, John asked Sherlock, in a quiet aside, “Who’s Mr. Muscle, then?”  


Above him came a low snort of derision. “My babysitter. I’m still considered a potential threat to the public it seems.”  


John’s eyes flicked up in surprise at Sherlock and then back at the body builder, who was following silently. Sherlock had killed a malicious and hated blackmailing criminal, not an innocent pedestrian. The murder wasn’t even public knowledge, for Christ’s sake. “Seriously?” He raised his eyebrow.  


“It was him, or continued imprisonment in Mycroft’s lair. There was no choice, John.”  


John hummed in amused acknowledgment. “What’s the story then?” He asked softly.  


Sherlock shrugged. “There isn’t one. Lestrade thinks I’m in rehab again.”  


John stiffened at that, flashing his friend a disbelieving look.  


“Let them make their assumptions,” Sherlock murmured.  


John glanced back at Sherlock’s new handler again. He briefly considered greeting the new addition, but quickly taking in the serious face, the no-nonsense look in the eyes (nearly a foot and a half above him) and the heavy bulk of muscle in the arms, he silently turned back to face the front. Next to him, Sherlock smirked.  


“Shut up.”  


Sherlock chuckled.  


“What are we doing here exactly?” John asked as they reached the third flight of stairs.  


“The signal from the broadcast originated from these coordinates,” Lestrade replied.  


“So, this is Moriarty, then?” John asked, tensing slightly. “Isn’t this a little unrelated to your unit, Lestrade?”  


“Orders from on high,” he grumbled back.  


John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.  


“Ugh, my nosey brother must always involve himself in some fashion. He’s just too lazy to actually lift his arse out of his plush office armchair.”  


John gave a brief chuckle at Sherlock’s usual immaturity regarding his brother. “And what are we expecting? More riddles? A body? A bomb?”  


“No bomb – already swept for that. They didn’t find a body either, though that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” _They’re idiots, after all_ was clearly implied.  


Once they’d finally reached the top floor of the building, they approached a room with its door wide open.  


Sherlock turned to Lestrade, but the DI already knew what he was about to ask. “Yes, the room was found with the door open. No one’s touched it. In fact, Matthews can check it for prints now,” he said, nodding at the male evidence technician, who knelt down by the door handle, blew his scraggly fringe out of his eyes and took out a kit. “Would you like to do the honours?” Lestrade continued, giving an exaggerated motion of welcome to Sherlock, who ignored him and was already entering the room ahead of him.  


John shared a knowing look with Lestrade and followed the consulting detective into the room. Sherlock had stopped after two steps, still in shadow, taking it all in. The westward facing room was in the uppermost corner of the building and had two walls made almost entirely of glass. After the doorway, there was a hall about a metre long, the left side continuing smoothly as the back wall of the room and the right side ending as it opened up to the rest of the room. The windows, starting from about John’s mid-thigh from the floor, made up the wall across from the door and the wall on the right side, the front of the building. In the early afternoon day, it was filled with sunlight provided by a rare blue sky everywhere except for in the doorway where Sherlock had paused. The room was bare, the floors unfinished and the un-windowed walls a plain white plaster, and in the centre was a single table and a wooden chair. Basked in sunlight and sitting on said table, was a computer surrounded by a plethora of technological gadgets that John couldn’t even pretend to recognize, but assumed were broadcasting Moriarty’s message and what had caused television providers so much grief trying to block.  


After several long moments of Sherlock just standing there, John decided the man had had enough quiet time to absorb and stepped past him into the sunny room to take in the surroundings. After a moment, John heard two sets of footsteps follow.  


“It’s almost like an invitation,” John mused, mostly to himself. “Leaving the door open like that.”  


Outside the windows across from the doorway, the neighbouring building was lower, providing a view of building roofs and a rare hint of blue sky streaked with the white and grey of clouds. The windows to the right faced the street and another business building with slightly greater height. Sun shone off its grey brick and reflected from its smaller windows, one of which appeared to be open on a floor higher than theirs.  


“Must you stand there?” Sherlock asked abruptly and with acid. “Your ogreish form is blocking – ”  


John turned to see Sherlock suddenly freeze, eyes trained on something by the chair and indeed cast in shadow by his appointed handler, when something caught the corner of John’s eye. Looking back out at the building across the street, something in the open window glinted in the sunlight.  


“Sherlock…” John started, trying to get his attention.  


“John! Get down!” Sherlock shouted, dropping to his stomach behind the table a second before the sound of glass shattering and a pained shout. “Get down!”  


John had been on his belly before Sherlock had finished his first order, hidden from the window by the walled section a few feet high. He covered his head as glass rained down on him and at the sound of a bullet hitting the wall at the previous level of Sherlock’s head, John saw the handler drop to the ground as well, gripping his upper arm and grimacing in pain. Army medic skills kicking in, John took in the scene at a glance – the two evidence technicians weren’t in the room, Lestrade was back in the hidden doorway, Sherlock was face down on the ground, obscured by the table, the handler was on his belly clutching his arm, blood beginning to seep into his coat’s sleeve and leak through his clenched fingers – and began army crawling towards the wounded, glass crunching under him. The whizzing of another bullet and the table in front of Sherlock collapsed as one of its legs was blown out from under it.  


“Sherlock, get out!” John ordered. “Don’t lift your head!”  


Surprisingly without protest, Sherlock began an undignified slithering across the floor, trying to stay as flat as possible, until he got close enough for Lestrade to pull him into cover.  


John reached the handler. “Can you move?”  


“Yes,” was the gruff reply.  


“Alright, _go_.” But the huge man was already doing a decent army crawl towards the doorway, hindered slightly by his arm, followed by John.  


Once near the door, Sherlock grabbed his friend and yanked him out into the hallway. “Alright, Sherlock?” John asked, eyes sweeping over the pale man, pausing briefly on a small cut on his forehead – likely caused by a splinter from the table.  


“Fine, I’m fine,” was the terse reply, but Sherlock’s eyes were alight with some emotion John couldn’t decipher and he practically vibrated with nervous energy.  


“Good,” John replied and reached up to grab Sherlock’s scarf.  


The flash of alarm that passed through the taller man’s face was rather amusing. “What –”  


Quickly unwinding the navy material from around the long neck, John turned away from a put-upon sigh and approached the huge man holding his wound with a stoic expression. The other evidence technician was standing next to him, relief filling her green eyes when she saw the scarf in John’s hand. “Oh, good, you’re a doctor aren’t you?”  


“A bloody sniper!” Lestrade was yelling into his mobile. “Yes, in the building right across! -- Because we were bloody nearly shot, that’s how!” Matthews was shuffling on his feet, looking rather out of place.  


“Yup,” John said lightly, leading Sherlock’s handler to lean against a wall and sit down. “Doctor John Watson at your service. What’s your name, mate?”  


“Lemming. Anthony.” He winced when John moved his hand to inspect the wound.  


“Right, Anthony. Bad news is you’re missing a small chunk of muscle. Good news is it’s not that bad.”  


“Wonderful bedside manner, Doctor,” Sherlock noted dryly.  


John ignored him and secured the scarf around the thick arm. “We getting an ambulance, Lestrade? This won’t stop the bleeding.” John wiped his fingers on his jean-clad thighs to remove most of Lemming’s blood – it seemed rude to stain the building’s new carpeting.  


“They can’t send anyone in,” was the frustrated reply. “They want us to come out. The entire street’s going into lockdown.”  


John looked at the windows in the hall with a clear line to the sniper. “We can’t go out the way we came in. Sherlock?” Sherlock was standing slightly separated from the others, eyes darting around and unfocused. “Not a good time for your mind palace!”  


The detective’s eyes focused on John with a startling suddenness. “There’s a back way.” With that, he strode off down the hallway perpendicular to the way they’d come up, staying close to the wall.  


“Stay out of view of the window,” John ordered, and pushed Lemming ahead of him so he could supervise his condition.  


Lestrade swore and started yelling into his phone again. As they dashed down hallways and down stairs, Lemming stumbled twice, both times testing John’s ability to steady the huge man. As they rushed down the final set of stairs, everything was suddenly cast in shadow as a cloud passed in front of the sun. Then they were on the main level, down a hallway, and finally bursting outside.  


“What the hell?” Lestrade exclaimed.  


John had to agree with the sentiment. Above them, relentlessly traversing the mostly blue sky was a black cloud like billowing smoke, tendrils of charcoal grey reaching out and down towards the earth. Rushing out on all sides, the sky was quickly consumed by angry shades of grey, brightened sporadically by shots of lightning. Percussive booming echoed around them as the gloom approached.  


“What _is_ that?” Matthews shouted.  


Just then, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan burst around the corner of the building.  


“Someone pulled a fire alarm in the building across the way – it’s chaos out there and the ambulance can’t get through!” She informed them breathlessly. “The paramedics are coming on foot.”  


John looked at Anthony, who appeared paler than before. “Alright?”  


“Been better,” he grunted, staring at the sky.  


Then the refuse bin next to them seemed to explode.  


Sally screamed and Lestrade shouted as they leaped away, covered in slush and soaking wet.  


“The fuck?” Sally cried.  


“Is that _snow_?” Lestrade looked incredulous.  


Car sirens began going off in the vicinity, the sound of shattering glass and screams echoed into the back alley they were in. Sherlock was following a falling projectile with wide eyes. John grabbed the back of his coat and yanked him back towards the building as another chunk of ice, this one the size of a large pumpkin, hit the ground several meters from them. Upon impact, a slab of concrete broke with a crack, the ice smashing to shards on the ground.  


“Holy shit!”  


“Jesus!”  


“Get back inside!”  


John tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s locked!”  


“Open the door!” Sally cried.  


“I can’t!” John shouted back. “It locked us out!”  


Another shard hit, then another smashed out a window in the building behind them, yet another exploding on the ground right next to them. The alley provided little shelter, the building behind them locked and the one across from them offering nothing but smooth wall. Panicked, Sally ran off down the narrow street, back the way she’d come. Adrenaline coursing through their systems, the other six followed, spurred on as more hail chunks exploded around them. Within moments they were all soaked through their clothes and covered in chips of ice.  


As they rounded the corner of the building, they collided with two terrified paramedics running in the opposite direction.  


“Go back!” Sally shouted, pushing them. “There’s nothing that way!”  


“Who’s injured?” one of them demanded.  


“It can wait!” Lemming yelled, unintentionally drawing attention to his bloody arm.  


They started off again, when Lestrade grabbed Matthews back as another chunk struck right in front of them. The area they were in now was more exposed, blocks of hail smashing all around them, people screaming, car horns blaring, glass from shattered windows raining down around them.  


“Keep going!” Sherlock yelled.  


Then everything went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love feedback!


	2. What's Safer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain sniper was not pleased.

Mycroft Holmes, desirous of a colour scheme with less taupe and citrine yellow, was in a different office in his home – this one comprised of warm, dark oak and comfortably cushioned chairs – when the sunlight filtering through the large window suddenly darkened. Almost immediately, his mobile began to ring. He glanced briefly at the familiar number, but lack of name or photo on the call display.

“Yes?”

“Sir, there was a sniper attack on the scene whilst your brother was present,” came his assistant’s voice. From the sound of it, she was in a car driving on dry, smooth pavement.

“And?”

“There was a distress call, but it is unknown at this point who was wounded. They were also just hit by the storm that is now approaching our car.”

She must be close by then, as that storm was now hitting here, Mycroft reflected. He approached his office window, surprised at the quickly encroaching gloom. On the other end of the line there was a strange thud and shattering, not unlike the sound of the first and last slush-ball Sherlock had ever dared throw at Mycroft’s back at the age of eight.

“I trust you have the documents?” he asked, referring to the only reason for her to be travelling at the moment. 

Her reply sounded strained. “Yes, sir. The originals.”

Just then, Mycroft’s office door was unceremoniously banged open.

“Sir, we must get you to the cellar,” Lockland informed him, politely but with urgency.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. This only happened for very serious reasons, like the time with the bomb threat from the Turkish spy. That had been quickly dealt with.

More thumping came from over the phone. Swiftly, Mycroft shut down his laptop and left the room after Lockland, closing his office door behind him.

“Go underground once you’ve returned,” he spoke as he moved. “This storm seems quite monstrous.” 

The sound of glass shattering and screaming came over the mobile.

“Andrea?” he demanded, mildly alarmed.

“Sir—”

The line went dead.

***

“In breaking news: there are reports of spontaneous electrical storms all over London. Weather reports are showing that these freak storms are moving incredibly quickly – over a hundred kilometres per hour – and photos are just starting to come in of what looks like record-breaking hail. Wow, would you look at that? It is strongly recommended that citizens stay indoors as – oh, reports of hail reaching up to fifty-nine centimetres in diameter – is that right? Oh, my, and that is nearly three times the twenty centimetre record in South Dakota in America in 2010. These storms appear to be passing through Brixton and Lambeth presently and a severe weather warning has been issued for most of London. These storms are incredibly unpredictable…”

***

After kicking John out of the house for some adventure time with Sherlock, Mary drove to the closest supermarket for some groceries and to get out for a bit. Normally she’d walk, but with a stomach the size of a beach ball and a bladder the size of a peanut these days, she decided vehicular transportation was safer. 

She was stuck in traffic on the way home when the storm hit, quite literally. At first, the sky darkened, bringing with it the menacing rumble of thunder, but no rain. Suddenly there was a flash of white and the car in front of her seemed to implode. 

Horrified screams erupted as hail the size of watermelons began to fall around her, people exiting their vehicles and running for buildings when they realized the metal frames of their cars wouldn’t protect them. Boxed in on all sides, Mary quickly unfastened her seatbelt and got out, too, just in time to be shoved onto the hood of her car as people pushed past her.

“Hey! Pregnant lady here!” she yelled angrily, her voice drowned out by the sound of screams, breaking glass and shattering ice. A car alarm began blaring as a parked Volkswagen on the side of the road was struck by a chunk of ice, the entire trunk collapsing to the ground, actually lifting its front tires off the pavement. “Jesus fuck,” she gasped, and made a beeline for the closest shelter indoors. Unfortunately she couldn’t move much faster than a waddle and when she found her path blocked by a line of cars crushed bumper to bumper, a bit of panic began to unfurl in her chest. 

“Lady!” came a voice behind her. “Need a boost?”

She looked to see a wonderfully big, strong man offer her a hand.

“Yes, thank you!” She smiled at him as he gripped her elbow and lifted her onto the hood of a blue Toyota. He scrambled on after her to help her off, as well. “I am so bloody pregnant!” she shouted as more ice chunks fell around her. 

Then everything went white.

***

Electricity coursed through their bodies, causing muscles to spasm and backs to arc and bow. Energy in overwhelming quantities had their nervous systems singing, causing them to feel burning hot, then freezing cold. Agony forced breath and sound from some throats and choked silence from others. Rapidly heated air made itself known with a belated and deafening clap, causing the errant thought of _‘light travels faster than sound’_ to pass through one of their minds. It seemed to go on for ages, bolt after bolt striking them. At last, as their punished bodies made contact with cold, hard concrete, it stopped.

For several moments, they just lay there, shell-shocked, breathing hard in remembered agony and groaning from the impact. Some last smaller chunks of hail continued to fall sporadically around them, showering them in slush. 

“We should be dead,” Sherlock mumbled somewhere to John’s left. The statement was so obvious that John momentarily worried that the lightning had fried Sherlock’s brain, but then the detective continued and John realized he was trying not to panic by working it out. “We should have gone into cardiac arrest, our lungs should have seized, our central nervous systems overwhelmed.”

Realizing it was probably a good idea to make sure none of those things _had_ happened, John pushed himself painfully into a sitting position to check on the others. They were mostly pushing themselves up to sit as well, though Lemming appeared to have passed out and Sally remained on her back, her brow furrowed in either pain or confusion. 

“He was shot,” John told the paramedic that had seemed to regain his composure, indicating Lemming. As he spoke, one paramedic began unwinding the makeshift scarf bandage while the other retrieved the medical bag that had gone flying. “Bullet grazed his arm,” John continued, explaining the blood loss.

“A lightning bolt can carry as much as one hundred twenty kilo amperes, but only thirty mega amperes can cause ventricular fibrillation and --” Sherlock was breathing heavily now, “--John, your hair isn’t even frizzy—” 

“Freak! Shut up!” Sally yelled at him, emphasizing each word, and it was so normal John almost laughed in relief. “I feel really weird,” she continued.

“You have just been hit by lightning,” replied the female evidence technician. How did he still not know her name?

Not wanting a Hound-of-Baskerville repeat, John approached a pale-faced Sherlock and helped him to his feet, using him for support as much as he provided it. Blood was dripping from the cut on his forehead, but head wounds always bled a lot. “Sherlock, alright?” he asked, keeping eye contact, trying to radiate stability. “You’re fine. We all experienced that, not just you, alright. You can –” what had he said all those years ago? “—you can trust the evidence of your own eyes, or whatever. You’re fine,” he repeated.

“Do you hear that?” Donovan was asking somewhere behind them. “That weird thumping?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted away and returned to his, narrowing. “Of course I’m fine.”

John raised his eyebrows at him. “Oh? Good –”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock announced, twirling away to face the DI, currently struggling to his feet. 

“What?” Lestrade asked irritably.

“We need a police car.”

“ _What_?” Lestrade repeated, incredulous this time.

“Do you here those sirens?” 

“All I hear is thumping,” Donovan muttered. “Seriously, does no one else hear that?”

Everyone paused to listen. 

“I hear the sirens,” Lestrade admitted. “No thumping though.” 

There were general sounds of agreement from the group. Sherlock ignored Sally completely.

“When that ambulance comes for my body guard, we’ll need a police car so we can leave as well – do you really think we’ll be able to catch a cab right now?”

“Why does he have a body guard?” Matthews muttered to no one in particular.

“The entire area is in lockdown, Sherlock! Only emergency personnel can get in and out,” Lestrade argued.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. “Yes…” he drew out the word, urging the DI to comprehend.

Lestrade spluttered for a moment before exclaiming: “I can’t just sneak you through!”

“Well, certainly none of us are the sniper! And with all the chaos of the storm, he’s sure to have escaped by now anyway. You lot—” he made a shooing motion with his hand to include Lestrade and Donovan, likely symbolizing the police as a whole, “—will figure that out in three hours’ time, at which point everyone will be let go and a dangerous felon will be declared at large. _Or_ ,” he drew out the word dramatically, “We can leave now and get a head start.” 

Lestrade just stared at him for a moment. The paramedics, having done all they could to stabilize Lemming, stared at Lestrade, Donovan was glaring daggers at Sherlock, the two evidence technicians were glancing back and forth between the two, and John, used to this sort of thing, had decided to lean against the building and close his eyes for the time being. 

“Fine,” Lestrade grunted at last, and once again took out his mobile.

Sherlock joined John against the wall, taking out his phone and scowling at its cracked and waterlogged state. John grimaced in sympathy. When the ambulance arrived thirty seconds later, Sherlock leant down slightly to murmur, “We’re not getting in the police car.”

“No?” John replied, not really surprised. “All a distraction, then?”

Sherlock hummed, smirking.

John sighed but didn’t move from his position against the wall. “Ready when you are.”

When Lemming was being loaded into the ambulance, the police car was just showing up and everyone was thoroughly preoccupied, they did what they always did to avoid tedious paper work.

They ran.

***

“Where are we going?” John gasped after several blocks.

“Bolthole,” Sherlock muttered vaguely, slowing to a walk. He somehow still maintained his pearly complexion despite the run. Only the slightest sheen of sweat was visible at his temple. 

John slowed down with him, breathing a bit heavily. “Not Baker Street?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Too well-known an address.”

“Well-known? Who’s looking for us?”

“For me,” Sherlock corrected.

John was too breathless to sigh. “Fine. Who’s looking for you?”

“The second most dangerous man in London.”

Sherlock turned sharply left and strode down a dank alley way. John skidded a bit trying to follow.

“Who?”

“Help me with this,” Sherlock ordered, putting on his gloves to uncover a boarded-up window.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, John did. Once uncovered, Sherlock pushed the glass pane up and slipped inside.

“I’m not twenty anymore!” John hissed at him, eyeing the small hole his friend had disappeared through. When only silence greeted him, he sighed, turned around and backed up, gripping the lower ledge and lowering himself in feet first, entering the safer, if less impressive way. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled. 

With feet safely planted on the ground, John turned around to see Sherlock looking at him.

“What?”

The detective continued to contemplate his friend for a moment, his face blank but eyes strangely ambivalent. “A good friend would not ask another to choose between their family and said friend, yes?”

John blinked. “I’m not going to answer that barely hypothetical question until I know what’s going on.”

“Go home, John.” Sherlock ordered, turning away and going to rummage through a small closet.

“Sorry?” John tilted his head, pursed his lips and scrunched up his forehead in his typical ‘don’t piss me off’ expression.

“You heard me perfectly well, I’m not repeating myself,” Sherlock muttered, still rummaging through what looked like wigs and costumes. “Mary needs you, I’m sure. She is very pregnant, after all.”

“Yeah, Mary’s fine. What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“Nothing you need be concerned with, _John_ ,” he replied scathingly. He made a small sound of victory and turned around with a small, black flip-phone in his hand. “Now if you could just show yourself out I have an important phone call to make.”

Taking in the shabby flat, the burner phone and the disguises, John made some deductions of his own and came to an infuriating conclusion. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” he asked, dangerously calm. “This is what you did while you were away, without me, and you’re doing it again.”

“John—”

“No,” John shook his head once, smiling tightly and not happily at all. His left hand clenched and unclenched. “No, you don’t get to do this to me again and you don’t make that decision for me. You don’t get to run off on some suicide mission without any explanation and expect me to welcome you back with open arms. Especially not after a repeat performance.”

Sherlock’s expression appeared mildly pained. He tried a different approach. “John.” He swallowed around his discomfort. “I’ll just be away for a little while and you can’t be away from Mary.” When John opened his mouth to protest Sherlock hurriedly continued. “You can’t be away from your pregnant _wife_ , John. Not for me.”

_I can’t rely on you anymore, you can’t come on cases anymore_ , is what that sounded like. John closed his mouth with a snap, clenching his teeth together. His expression shuttered off and he looked away. “Just tell me what’s going on, Sherlock.” He scowled then, but forced out, “Don’t leave me without an explanation.”

With John’s eyes downcast, he didn’t see Sherlock’s uncharacteristic look of tenderness and regret. When he looked up again, the detective shook his head and turned back to the closet. 

“It’s safer this way,” he stated firmly. 

“Fuck safer!” John shouted. “Safer for whom? Not you, certainly! Mary’s ex-CIA and I was a soldier. We can take care of ourselves, Sherlock. Let us help you!”

Sherlock pulled on a black beanie and kept his back to his friend. “You can’t help me, John. There is nothing you could possibly do to help.”

He was winding him up, John knew. Trying to piss him off, and, damn him, it was working. “You can’t pull that ‘I don’t have friends’ shit with me, Sherlock. Not anymore.”

Sherlock ignored him, taking a ratty, navy sweater off a hanger and replacing it with his beloved Belstaff. 

Fuck this. This bloody stupid argument they’d had far too many times. Sherlock wanted to leave him out of the loop, yet again? “Fine,” John said aloud, voice tight against his anger. “Fine.”

But he refused to leave by the stupid, bloody window. He left the room and walked out the front door.

***

Steven Mitchell had experienced and witnessed many things in his forty years, but never before had he been hit by lightning. And he was pretty sure that wasn’t the sort of thing you were supposed to survive. Though he’d survived being crushed under a ton of industrial piping, so maybe he just had a guardian angel. Maybe Jim was looking out for him, he thought with dark amusement.

He’d missed his target twice, an unforgivable embarrassment for a sniper of his talents, regardless of his months-old injuries and still-recovering bones and muscles. His rage had been all-consuming. Which was why, as he’d fled, surrounded by wailing alarms and panicked co-workers, from his post in the building across from the target location, he hadn’t noticed the storm until the ice chunks were already falling around him. Panicked then, but not wanting to be stopped by the authorities, he’d run down the streets, unwilling to pause to take shelter; he hadn’t planned for an apocalyptic storm in his escape route. Though, as he had rounded a corner and encountered a cluster of cop cars, it had seemed the storm would work in his favour, as the authorities were all far too distracted to notice a nondescript man with a respectable laptop bag slip by.

He had turned down another street to get out of sight when a chunk of white had flashed by the corner of his eye. It had clipped his right shoulder and had shattered, scraping down his arm and causing him to stumble in agony. He’d shouted and had clutched his shoulder, the laptop bag falling to the ground. Leaning down to pick it up and hurry on his way, an explosion of electric pain had suddenly surged through his body.

Which was how he now found himself on the ground, shocked and more than a little pissed off at this turn of events. His day was not turning out at all the way he’d hoped. In fact, he’d planned on having a dead consulting detective by this point. He didn’t have time to lie there and consider at the moment, however, as he could still hear the sound of sirens and radios. Painfully getting to his feet and gripping the handle of his bag, he moved as fast as his metal-plated bones and pounding head would allow, and didn’t stop until he got to his hideout. Once in his apartment, he stripped off his shirt to check his throbbing shoulder – not broken, but beginning to turn an ugly purple and blue, angry scratches covering the length of his arm.

Yet another injury thanks to one Sherlock Holmes. Bloody Sherlock Holmes. His metal-plated bones and sewn-together muscles weren’t enough, no, had to become acquainted with ice chunks the size of small children, as well.

Abruptly, Mitchell gave a shout of rage and smashed his fist against the wall, breathing through the radiating pain from his injuries to fuel his rage. Seething, he rolled his shoulders, then his head, to get some of the tension out of his cramping muscles. His grip on the laptop bag tightened convulsively. 

His body might be too damaged for any useful function – aches and a loss of mobility greatly hindered his craft despite his decade of combat training – but he was still a deadly accurate sniper, undoubtedly the best in all of England and likely Europe at the moment.

This was not over yet.


	3. Mutation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something crazy was happening.

Sally was not crazy, but she was definitely hearing things. Not voices or anything like that, but a rhythmic beating, like pulsing in her head. Sometimes there was only one, like now in her flat, sometimes several overlapping, like directly after the storm when all this had started. On the way home from that chaos of a scene, there had been so many different rhythms the cacophony had nearly rendered her ill, causing her to curl into herself with her hands over her ears. Lestrade had been concerned enough to recommend a trip to the hospital, but she’d claimed it to be a migraine and figured she’d be fine in her dark bedroom and comfy bed. 

Now, alone under her covers, it seemed less like a migraine and more like a psychotic break. She could hear her own heartbeat, unnaturally loud in her head, so clear she could swear she could hear the blood cells being pushed into her atriums, through her ventricles and out of her arteries and aorta. And if she listened hard enough, there seemed to be more faint beating rhythms around her, two at a background volume, beating excitedly ( _allegro con spirito_ , her eight years of piano lessons told her), one quieter still _pianissimo_ and more stable _andantino_ , a few more louder _mezzo forte_ and relaxed _andante_ , another two nearly inaudible and _largo_ (very slow)… Oh, and there was one where the rhythm was uneven, faltering and weak-sounding, like one of those weird modern pieces she’d loathed playing.

But loudest of all was the beat that matched the frantic pounding in her chest and she could swear, if she knew it wasn’t completely mad, that she was hearing other people’s heartbeats, as well. Like some fucked up, useless superpower. She’d never be able to be around people again without feeling like she was standing in the middle of a tribal drumming circle, only being played on her head instead of on drums. 

Maybe she was going crazy. Maybe the Freak was contagious. Maybe this job was too stressful and her mind was finally rebelling. Maybe she just had low blood sugar and needed some ice cream. Yeah, that sounded about right. 

Throwing back the covers and crawling out of the claustrophobic heat, she put on slippers and padded into the kitchen to rummage through her freezer. Sticking her head into the cold didn’t seem to help. In fact, one rhythm, elevated and sounding _inquieto_ , seemed to be getting louder, a gradual crescendo that peaked with three loud bangs. At first she thought it was part of the rhythm, until it came again, louder, accompanied by a shout of “Sally! Open up, I know you’re home!” and she realized Lestrade was knocking on her door.

Ice cream container in hand, she groaned. “Go away, Greg!” but she made her way to the door anyway. Opening it, she said, “We’re not on duty, you can’t boss me around and I have the worst bloody migraine of life.”

Pushing past her, he pulled her further into the entrance, closing and locking the door behind himself. Sally took in his panicked and wild-eyed expression. “The hell, Greg?”

“Something’s happening to me,” he said, breathless and fidgety. 

“What, a heart attack? Jesus, calm down, what’s going on?” She led him to sit at her kitchen table and turned to put down the ice cream and put the kettle on. The rapid pounding that had arrived with Lestrade’s appearance was causing her heartbeat to pick up in sympathy. “Seriously, relax. You’re making me nervous.”

Greg had his head in his hands and was trying to regulate his breathing. Sally gave him time to gather himself as she fixed tea for the both of them, knowing the way her boss preferred his as well as she knew her own preference. She set a steaming cup in front of him and sat down with her own. The beating she associated with Greg’s heartbeat was slower now, though still elevated. Curious, she reached out to grab his wrist, ignoring his flinch, and – yup – the feel of his pulse under her fingers matched the pounding in her head. It was official, she was a mutant. 

Taking her hand back, she took a deep breath to steady herself. _Don’t think about it – focus on Greg_. “Alright, what’s happened?”

The DI wrapped his hands around the mug and continued staring at her table. “I don’t know.”

She observed the top of his gray head for a moment. “You don’t know.”

He shook his head. Shivered. Took a deep breath. Shuddered again.

“Jesus Christ, are you in shock?” Sally gaped. Jumping up, she went to grab an afghan from her sofa and placed it over her boss’s shoulders. “Seriously, Greg, explain, you’re freaking me out.”

“Alright, look. Maybe I’m just going mad, I don’t know, but I can’t talk to Carole and, well, you seemed…odd…after the storm, so I just thought...”

Sally wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that her boss would rather talk through a mental crisis with her than with his on-again, off-again wife. “Spit it out.”

“Right, yeah. So, okay, I was walking into my living room to watch some telly, yeah? And my hands were full – carrying a beer and some dinner – and I hit the coffee table with my knee. Well, I’d left a mug of tea on the edge, on the other side, a real nice one my niece made for me, and I saw it tip over and I knew I couldn’t reach it, but I just couldn’t let it fall and shatter, so I dropped my beer and reached for it and, I just, I knew I couldn’t reach it, but I tried anyway –” 

Greg’s heart beat spluttered frantically in her head – actually she was finding it easier to ignore now – as he cut himself off.

“So, what? The mug broke? Is this why you’re so upset? It was an accident, Greg, I’m sure your niece won’t hate you.”

The DI shook his head. “That’s the thing,” he said, eyes wide and pleading, voice more gravelly than usual. “It never hit the ground. I was too far away to reach it, but I did, and I caught it.”

Sally stared at him. “You caught it.”

He made a frustrated sound and looked away. “Look, just – just watch, yeah?”

“What?” 

Greg looked at her face then, observing her reaction carefully as he slowly reached towards her mug on the other end of the table. They were at least a metre away from each other, much further than his arm’s length, but as she watched, once Greg had straightened his arm completely, his hand’s approach didn’t stop. Sally watched open-mouthed, her heartbeat going into overdrive in her head and chest as she watched Greg’s arm _stretch_ , literally lengthening like an elastic band until his hand reached her mug. Carefully, he grasped its handle and slowly brought it towards himself until his arm was normal length again. He set it down and crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively.

Sally stared at him for a moment, feeling light-headed. She realized she hadn’t taken a breath in a while and suddenly pulled in a ragged lungful of air.

“First, I’m hearing heartbeats –” hers, beating like she’d just chased a criminal, and Greg’s, slower but sounding painfully loud, were extremely evident at the moment “—and now I’m hallucinating, too. Great, I really have gone ‘round the bend.”

The fear in Greg’s eyes morphed into confusion. “You’re hearing heartbeats?”

“Ever since the storm, yeah,” Sally confessed, figuring there was no harm in spilling her guts to a hallucination. “I can tell that you’re freaked out and that your current heart rate is…” she looked at her watch and counted his pulse as the second hand ticked from the eight to the nine, “…one hundred fourteen beats per minute. I can also tell that my neighbours are having sex – their hearts are hammering like rabbits – and that there’s an old man somewhere above us that sounds like he’s about to kick the bucket.”

It was Greg’s turn to stare in astonishment. “This started today?”

“Right after the storm,” she repeated. “That’s why I had such a bad migraine.”

They sat there in silence for a moment, both processing. This didn’t really feel much like a hallucination at all, Sally decided.

“You’re not having me on?” Greg demanded, an edge to his voice.

Sally shook her head and scowled. “Course not.”

“Something happened to us when we were hit by the lightning,” Greg muttered.

Sally nodded and took a sip of her tea. “Must have.”

“What about the others, do you think?”

Sally shook her head and took another sip of tea. “Dunno.”

Greg nodded absently and took a mouthful of tea, as well. They sat in silence for another moment. This was insane, absolutely mad. She’d never be able to call Holmes Freak ever again, not knowing she had vampire hearing and Greg was like a male Elastigirl.

“You’re ice cream’s melting,” he informed her suddenly.

“Oh, hell!” Sally exclaimed, jumping up.

***

When the black car pulled into Mycroft’s underground garage, Sherlock was mildly surprised to be met by the man himself. Sherlock took one look at him, taking in the dust patterns on his clothes and minute scuffs on his shoes, and said, “Really, the cellar, brother?”

“Lockland insisted,” Mycroft replied, leading Sherlock into his home and to his most private office. “You were caught in the storm, as well, I see.” 

Sherlock scowled, pushing still-damp hair out of his eyes and opening his ratty rucksack to pull out his soaked Belstaff. “This will need to be dry-cleaned and – wait, ‘as well’?” Sherlock noted the phrasing suddenly. He glanced at his brother, then at his desk, noticing the BlackBerry, red notification light flashing and vibrating rather forlornly without its owner. “Ahh, how is dear Andrea, then?” He took pleasure in Mycroft’s minute grimace as Sherlock sat in the plush guest chair with his dirty ‘homeless person’ clothes.

“Recuperating after receiving a lightning strike, presently. Though she did not appear to suffer any adverse effects.” His brow furrowed slightly in polite confusion. “I’m sure she will make a swift recovery – I’d so hate to have to train another one.” He picked up her mobile as he spoke and typed out a quick message with a look of mild distaste, as though handling this task was below him. 

Sherlock stored this information – the chances of another person being hit by lightning during that unnatural storm and surviving were exceedingly low – but kept mum on his own experience. Instead he got straight to the heart of the crisis, not wishing to play around this time.

“Mitchell is back.”

Mycroft froze, the tense muscles in his hand around the mobile revealing his shock and unease. His blue-grey eyes met Sherlock’s ice pale ones. “You’re certain.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, conveying his disdain while simultaneously masking his own unease. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” Mycroft queried casually. 

Sherlock paused a second to consider. Mitchell had certainly already checked the flat for Sherlock and found nothing, hence the creation of the Moriarty message as a trap. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been disturbed, therefore: “She’s not a target,” he decided, shaking his head to indicate that she did not require a spontaneous trip to her sister’s. “I’ll need access to police reports of an accident in an illegal gambling ring in Atlantic City on the 23rd of September, 2013,” he continued on the same breath.

Mycroft hummed. “Not your finest moment. Didn’t you claim Mitchell to be deceased after that particular case?”

“He was crushed by a ton of industrial piping!” Sherlock exclaimed, wincing at the indignant tone his brother brought out in him. He continued in a lower tone, “What was I supposed to think? And I didn’t exactly have time to go dig out the corpse myself.” 

“Not a corpse, as it turns out.”

Sherlock scowled at his brother and bit his tongue against some select language. “Will you give me access or not?”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Sherlock lifted his chin, refusing to look away first. 

If Mitchell had returned with the intention of taking his revenge upon Sherlock, Mycroft suddenly found himself unaccountably glad that his little brother had shot Magnussen, simply for the fact that it was the murder charge that had left him confined to Mycroft’s highly secure home for the past week instead of free at the well-known and easily accessible Baker Street flat. He shuddered internally at the thought of how that would have turned out.

At last, Mycroft nodded. “Finish this,” he said gravely.

Surprised at his tone, Sherlock nodded back. He stood up, raising his hands to straighten his suit before remembering the change in clothes. He made a face. “I’ll need to change first,” he declared, heading for the door. “Oh, and a new mobile would be greatly appreciated.” He waved his cracked one over his shoulder.

“And what has come of Agent Lemming?” Mycroft asked suddenly.

Sherlock paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Who?”

Mycroft sighed. “Agent Anthony Lemming, the man who escorted you to the scene today.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s expression cleared. “He was shot.”

Mycroft sighed again, more annoyed this time. “I sincerely hope you haven’t managed to kill one of our best agents on your first sanctioned outing, Sherlock. You’re already a murderer, you can’t afford any more official deaths on your record.”

Unofficial deaths were fine, then, apparently, Sherlock mused. He turned back to face his brother. “Oh, relax, he was fine. John checked him over himself. He stated it to be ‘not that bad’.” Sherlock smirked at the memory.

“Yes, and what will Doctor Watson’s part be in all this?”

The smirk fell from Sherlock’s face. “He will not be involved. I haven’t told him anything.”

Mycroft scrutinized his little brother and Sherlock fought the urge to fidget under his gaze.

“He will not thank you for this,” Mycroft said simply.

Sherlock let the door bang shut behind him.

***

John had been on his way home, still stewing over the argument with Sherlock, when he’d received the text from Mary.

_At Charing Cross. Come meet me._

He’d stared at the six words as his heart had clenched in his chest. He’d leaned towards the cabbie. “Change of plans. Take me to Charing Cross Hospital, please.”

_Are you alright?_ He’d typed back.

There hadn’t been a response.

He clenched his mobile in his fist as he now strode towards the receptionist desk of the hospital. “I’m here to see Mary Watson,” he said brusquely. “My wife. She texted me that she’s here.”

The young redhead began clicking her mouse and typing into her computer. “Oh, yes, there we are. She’s in the maternity ward. Second floor.” 

John felt a bowling ball settle in his stomach. He turned away without another word and slipped his mobile into his pocket as he rushed up the stairs, too anxious to wait for the elevator. He walked quickly down the hall, but his step faltered when he saw Mary, sitting on a chair in the hall, head bowed and hands cradling her distended stomach. The fluorescent lights put the scratches and bruises on her arms into sharp relief and her clothes were wrinkled and dirty.

“Mary.” His voice sounded choked. 

Her head snapped up, revealing smudged makeup, limp hair and blank eyes. When he knelt down in front of her, her face crumpled. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his hair. He could smell rain, asphalt and electricity on her skin.

“John,” she sobbed.

The grief in her voice and their current location was explanation enough. And yet John could not accept it, could not believe it. It was unreal, impossible.

His next breath was a gasp as he pulled his wife into a tight embrace and felt a part inside of himself freeze solid.


	4. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Mary and John struggled with grief, a game of cat and mouse began.

As the shadows of dusk began intertwining with the cigarette smoke in his flat, Mitchell lay down to have a bit of a nicotine-calm think, the rage smouldering as opposed to blazing, and then, despite being forced to stay supine to avoid putting weight on his shoulder, somehow fell asleep.

He had been thinking about Sherlock bloody Holmes, about how he would find him, about where he would be – he hadn’t been at his Baker Street flat the entire time Mitchell had been in London – and about who else had been visible at the target location. There had been that huge man that Mitchell had shot in hopes of getting to Sherlock and there had been that short, blondish fellow – had to be the John Watson in all the papers – that had reacted incredibly quickly. If he could just find Sherlock or one of them he’d be right back on track. But how, how, how…

And now he was dreaming that he was flying through the night sky, soaring over streets and cars and buildings, following the oddest pull in his chest. It felt familiar, this pull, like some well-known presence was attracting him. Intrigued, Mitchell pushed faster, following the trail like a bloodhound after a scent until he found himself on the doorstep of an unfamiliar town house. His mind had done some good work, because the detail was exquisite: six steps up, light blue door, brass mail slot, translucent glass, doorbell, peep hole, black, wrought iron hand rails and a potted plant hanging from the left of the door. No street name or house number were visible in the doorway, but that didn’t seem important – Mitchell got the sense that he’d be able to find his way back here just by following this trail that he could sense. In fact, it seemed to be coming from inside the house, like a magnetic pull towards an old friend – if he could just go in he knew he’d find what he was looking for. He reached for the handle—

And jerked awake with a throb of pain from his abused arm.

A slew of curses spilled between clenched teeth as he rolled off his right side and pushed himself into sitting up. He looked at his military-issue watch – four in the morning, but there was no way he’d be getting back to sleep now. 

Getting up, he decided to check his weapon, the most meditative action he could do. As he pulled the compact case from the laptop bag his thoughts inevitably turned to the detective. Now that Holmes had escaped the trap, he would know someone was after him. Maybe even realize it was Mitchell himself that was after him. (Mitchell’s hands moved through the motions of checking and assembling the weapon automatically, checking the safety, releasing the magazine, clearing the chamber…cold pieces of metal sliding and slotting into place smoothly and cleanly.) There was no way he’d return to his Baker Street apartment now and Mitchell had been in America throughout the majority of Moriarty’s game with the detective, so his knowledge was limited to what he could find online or in the papers. Maybe he could find that friend of his, Watson? Yeah, if he could find Watson—

An irresistible urge had Mitchell on his feet in an instant. Rifle still in hand, he took two stumbling steps towards his door before forcing himself to stop. What was he doing? As he paused to consider, the desire to move faded. Odd. Quickly, he dissembled the rifle again. That pull had felt just like in his dream, only stronger, more irresistible. He placed the rifle’s case back into the laptop bag. He’d been thinking about finding Holmes… He pushed the bag under the low bed. Then he’d been thinking of finding Watson – there! That magnetic draw again, pulling him to his door. It was a sixth sense, the impression of a scent, or a sound – gun powder, violence and flowers, luring him to everything he wanted – but he couldn’t actually smell anything other than his dusty room or hear anything other than distant traffic. His curiosity and restlessness getting the better of him, Mitchell pulled on a dark hoodie and let the invisible trail pull him out his door and into the night.

Not wanting to disrupt whatever magic had taken hold, Mitchell bypassed a cab and instead began walking quickly, nearly jogging in his excitement. As he moved down dark, sparsely occupied streets and slipped through the occasional bits of traffic the undeniable compulsion urged him forward. The pull, the scent that he could not smell, did not heed streets and would have led Mitchell to walk into buildings and obstructions of all sorts had he been following it blind. However, the non-scent got stronger the closer he got, providing a clear trail to follow.

At some points, when his mind would wander or his focus would blur, the trail would become unclear, as well. The first time this happened, he stood motionless in the middle of a sidewalk for several minutes, unsure of what to do next. It wasn’t until his thoughts returned to Watson that the urge returned and he understood: he was trying to find Watson, tracking him in fact, so as long as he focused on his goal, his target, directions leading him there would become clear. Following this logic, he attempted once again to bring thoughts of finding Sherlock Holmes to the front of his mind, imagining his arrogant, horse-like face with all his might, but no matter the amount of focus he dedicated to the task, no flutter of a tempting direction emerged. Frustrated, he continued on the Watson trail with renewed fervor, scowling at anyone within his vicinity. 

His watch displayed 5:12 AM by the time he finally walked up the right street and found himself in front of a house identical to that in his dream. There was a car parked in front of it – Watson was home. 

“Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. He’d just sat down on a bench across the street to consider his plan of attack when the front door opened and – wouldn’t you know it – out came the sidekick himself.

Watson walked with a military briskness, wound up tight enough to snap, down the front steps, along the short path, out the front gate and down the street to the left of Mitchell. He wore little against the cold, only a pair of jeans and a knitted sweater. Mitchell, still hidden in shadow, made to follow until he realized that the pull was still coming from the house and was not following Watson’s retreat. The sniper hesitated, watching Watson disappear down the street. Confused, Mitchell followed the powerful urge in a dreamlike state, unable to resist the pull towards the light blue door – wait, stop. _Cameras_. Clearing his head with a slight shake, he scowled at himself. Where was his training? Pulling the hood down lower over his face, he quickly walked down the street and around to the narrow road that attached to the back door – cameras rarely covered backyards. Jogging up the steps, he pulled out a couple pins from his left boot and set about picking the door’s lock. Just over two minutes later he slipped inside a dark hallway. Pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust, Mitchell felt for that pull again and let it lead him through the home, up a set of narrow stairs to a second floor, towards a door left ajar in the hallway, into a room lit by streetlight and to a bed occupied by—

All the breath left Mitchell’s lungs so abruptly he felt a bit lightheaded. The magnetic pull was gone – he’d reached his objective. 

Could it really…? Impossible, he hadn’t seen her in nearly a decade. And the chances… The coincidence was astounding. And yet… The hair was all wrong and the face a bit rounder, but undeniably, it was – she was, undeniably –

“Amy,” he mouthed, soundless in his shock. 

So this was where she’d disappeared to, then. The lovely Mrs. Watson. And, sweet Jesus, was she pregnant? Fury rushed through him in a powerful wave. Mitchell clenched his fists and took a step forward, the desire to simply wrap his hands around her neck and choke every last breath out of her strong enough to make his hands shake. It wouldn’t even take two minutes, she wouldn’t even make a sound, but the bruising, the fingerprints – it would be too messy. In the silence and darkness Mitchell stood there, seething. She was lying on her side, facing the door, of course – like his, her instincts wouldn’t let her sleep any other way. He wondered if she still kept a gun under her pillow like he did, like all CIA agents did, especially the ex-agents. After what she’d done to him, and to see her in this quaint little home with a loving husband (maybe not so loving considering how he’d rushed out earlier) and baby on the way while he was stuck scraping a living together with petty assassinations… it was almost too much. But, no, he couldn’t do it like this. He’d likely been caught on surveillance cameras on his way here and if she wound up dead with strangulation bruises matching his hand span… and besides, he’d never liked taking on more than one mission at a time, he told himself. His current target required all his focus.

With more self-control than he thought he had, the ex-CIA agent turned around and stalked out of the house, careful to leave all as he’d found it, and down the street opposite the way Mr. Watson had gone. The man was long gone by now and when Mitchell focused on him, he got only the sense of a general north-eastern direction, nothing clear enough to follow. Scowling, Mitchell took out his mobile – this tracking business was frustratingly inconsistent. He’d have to experiment with it more, but first – Mitchell tapped in a number he never thought he’d call again and pressed dial. While unable to take care of her himself, there was no reason the new Mrs. Watson couldn’t get what was coming to her. This information was simply too valuable to pass up.

“ _Привет_?” 

“Dmitri, it’s Steven Mitchell,” he greeted in Russian. Ignoring the shocked and angry spluttering on the other end, he continued, “Do you recall an Agent Amy Arlington?”

A brief pause before a dark reply. “She killed my Nadia, of course I do.”

Mitchell grinned savagely. “I can give you her current identity and location.”

***

The room was dark with only the glow from the computer illuminating Sherlock’s face, throwing his angles into sharp relief and not allowing the detective’s attention to be diverted from the screen. Searching police archives on Mycroft’s high security database hadn’t turned up anything on Mitchell – no criminal record. This had been vexing until Sherlock had realized that, of course, Mitchell was not listed as a suspect in the Adair murder because he had never been captured in the first place. Which made research much more complicated. Getting up to pace, Sherlock came up with only two likely explanations for what could have happened that September day nearly a year and a half ago. First: thanks to an ally in the New Jersey police force, after getting dug out from the industrial equipment and sent to hospital by authorities, Mitchell had help to slip under their radar and avoid suspicion. Or, second, Mitchell had been saved and sent to hospital by fellow club members before the police had even arrived, and thus had never been in danger of arrest. A third less likely option was that Mitchell really had died that day and the menthol Nat Sherman cigarette ash that Sherlock had found on the scene (finally his expertise on the stuff had come in handy) earlier was purely coincidence. And the sniper attack immediately after said discovery coincidence, as well. Unlikely. In addition, Sherlock had found files documenting the discovery of the gambling ring by the police thanks to a call of a shooting in the area. In the document, it was noted that the phone call had been untraceable – even if it had been traceable, his call hadn’t been long enough to give them a chance, idiots – and that they had only searched the abandoned warehouse nearly half an hour after receiving the phone call. This would have given Mitchell’s little gambling mates plenty of time to drop off their unconscious-looking friend at an unsuspicious location and call an ambulance before fleeing. It was the least they could do after recovering their losses from his pockets, more likely than not.

Considering this theory, Sherlock turned back to the computer and began searching for emergency responses within a one kilometre radius of the gambling den between the hours of one and three in the morning. Five results popped up for that night: 1:09 AM, apparent drug overdose in 78 Reading Ave.; 2:24 AM, robbery at 137 North Haddon Ave.; 1:26 AM, trauma/mugging victim near 64 Adriatic Ave. – yes! That fit the bill. Victim, male, aged approx. 40, found unconscious and in critical condition, rushed straight to surgery, induced coma for six days, long and painful recovery, blah, blah, checked in as a Timothy Daren – he made a mental note to remember the name: _maybe important_ – released from hospital November 8th, 2014, continued physiotherapy recommended… Not even two months before the Moriarty message. Yes, it lined up beautifully.

Scowling at his own recklessness with the entire situation, Sherlock opened the security camera footage he’d gotten Mycroft to procure (he easily could have figured out Mycroft’s passcode and just gotten it himself, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to waste time searching through all the feeds to find this particular one). He should have made sure Mitchell had been killed rather than just assuming so, Sherlock thought as he brought up the film from that morning. Or, well, the previous morning, considering the current time. Impatiently he sped up the video, watching the hours progressing as the sky lightened outside and people began populating the hall of the Primary Travel Insurance building of which the camera’s view encompassed. At 8:24:47 he pressed play, watching grainy footage of a man with neat, brown hair, slight limp, glasses, an unhealthy pallor to his vaguely Irish complexion and carrying a laptop bag – obviously not containing a laptop – walk into the windowed office third from the end and close the door behind him. The plaque on the door said G. Misra. Sherlock rewound the clip to where the man was still in the hallway and paused it where his profile was the most visible. The man obviously knew the location of the camera, as he never provided a clear shot of his face, but this was enough.

“Got you,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward slightly in his seat. He couldn’t see much detail on the low quality footage, but, despite the change in hair style, gait and colouring, it was unquestionably Steven Mitchell. Squinting a bit, the detective was pleased to see a hint of a bump on the sniper’s nose – the result of his head-butt, no doubt.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and let one corner of his lips turn up slightly. 

He had a lead.

***

After coming home from the hospital with words like _grief counselling, induced labour, infection risks_ and _funeral options_ running through their heads, Mary had sat carefully on their couch with John hovering uncertainly in front of her. She’d taken in his tattered and bloody jeans, which John himself hadn’t noticed before then, and had demanded to know what had happened. Voice hoarse, John had provided the distraction, describing the building, Sherlock’s babysitter, the room with the computer, the sniper attack, the escape and the terrifying storm. He’d talked until his voice had failed him and then he’d led his wife to bed. Lying next to her, he’d stroked her hair as she’d lain there numbly, and again later as her tears began soaking his jumper with salt water. As he’d fought to be strong for her, swallowing painfully and breathing deeply to keep his own face dry, the motion of stroking his wife’s hair had been as soothing for him as it had been for her. Later still, after she’d finally succumbed to an exhausted sleep, he’d been afraid to wake her with the tension in his body, but watching her curled protectively around their dead daughter in her womb had been too much. And if he had accidentally interrupted her brief reprieve from grief by rousing her, the guilt would have made him ill. So, carefully, quietly, he’d slipped out of bed and had all but fled from the house.

Dazed and unaware of his surroundings, he’d walked aimlessly through empty, sleeping streets until he’d suddenly recognized where his half-asleep body had led him.

Shivering, he tucked his hands into his armpits and gazed up at the dark windows of 221b Baker Street, thinking of Sherlock calling him an idiot for exposing himself to the January cold without a coat. It seemed that this place would always feel like home to him, at least as far as his unconscious was concerned. Why else would his feet have brought him here? He shuffled forward and sat on the front step, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Sherlock wasn’t in, he remembered, thinking of their fight from earlier…it felt like ages ago rather than just hours. And he had no idea if Mrs. Hudson was home, but he didn’t want to wake her in order to find out. 

Sitting there, he realized Sherlock didn’t even know about the baby, didn’t know what had happened to Mary, and that seemed wrong. Sherlock cared about them, he’d want to know, even during a dangerous case with snipers, he ought to know. But John didn’t want to distract him either, if the case was dangerous – he hated distractions. But John could still just call the man, just talk to him for a bit. Maybe apologize for the fight? No, not that, John wasn’t sorry for that. It all felt so surreal. With numb fingers, he pulled out his mobile and slowly plugged the number in from memory and put the device to his ear.

It didn’t even ring, just went straight to voice mail.

_“You’ve reached Sherlock Holmes. If you’re leaving a message, it had better be interesting, otherwise don’t waste my time.” Beep._

“You’re such a berk, Sherlock,” John mumbled, lips clumsy from the cold. “Answer your phone. I need to talk to you.” Nothing. Oh, wait, Sherlock wouldn’t hear this until he checked his messages. Right. “Look, I’m not sorry for earlier, you can’t just leave me out of the loop like that. I know you don’t want my help, but you’re an idiot so you need someone to watch your back and...” Pause. “Bloody hell,” John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with shaky fingers. “I forgot you broke your phone.” He sighed heavily, his breath making a cloud in front of his face. “I’ll just walk over to the Diogenes Club and smash a rock through a window, shall I? That’ll get Mycroft’s attention, I reckon, and then he’ll come kidnap me and I can come talk to you. Look, it’s…it’s about the ba – Mary.” He took a deep breath, telling himself the unsteadiness was from the shivering. “I just…You need to know, ‘cause I know you care and…” He swallowed and shook his head. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate sentiment. “Actually, he’d probably just call the cops on me, wouldn’t he? Mycroft, I mean. And then I’d have to deal with Lestrade and I’m not really in the mood right now, and I’m pretty sure I’m going into mild hypothermia…” What was it, fifteen below at the moment? And no coat – he was an idiot. “So I’ll just call a cab, shall I and… don’t get shot, alright?” John sighed again. “Idiot,” he muttered. He went to hang up and realized the voicemail system had already cut him off at some point.

John scowled as he shivered violently. He really should call a cab. He was skirting the dangers of hypothermia being out in the cold like this – already his movements were slow and clumsy – and Mary could wake up at any moment and notice he was gone. He didn’t want her to worry. He breathed deeply as he dialled the cab company in his contacts. He wanted to be there for her, but that meant he had to stay strong. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and, with all the military training he could muster, forced his emotions back under control so that when the other end of the line was picked up, his response was steady as a rock.


	5. Vivid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary dreamed and Mitchell hunted.

Mary had vivid dreams sometimes, but this was different. This felt real. So real, in fact, that she didn’t even think to wake herself up from it. Or maybe her subconscious just knew that waking up wouldn’t be any better.

She was standing in front of the kitchen sink, hands braced against the counter. Early morning sun was beginning to filter in through the window, but did not provide any warmth. She took a ragged breath and strong arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind. Relaxing into the embrace, she let her husband pull her tight against his chest and bow his head so that she could feel each exhalation against her cheek. The roughness of his stubble scratched against her shoulder and neck with each little movement, providing her with a feeling of being grounded, loved. She squeezed his hands gratefully where they held her around her distended stomach. His breath hitched and then steadied again, providing her with a way to pace her own breathing. The kindness and strength in that tiny gesture nearly overwhelmed her. Tears in her eyes, she turned in John’s arms to place her hands on his face.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” she whispered hoarsely, not looking away from the pain and uncertainty in his tired eyes. “We’re meant to support each other. Don’t hold it in.” _Like you did with Sherlock_ , she didn’t add.

John’s expressive face crumpled, the grief in each crease devastating in its honesty and depth. She gasped in empathy and he pulled her tight against him, lifting his head so her face could press into his neck as he shuddered once.

“I was meant to protect you,” he forced out, voice hoarse. “I was going to be a father.”

_And I already feel like a mother_. Unable to speak, she tightened her hold on him. 

They stood there for some moments, absorbing each other’s warmth and strength until the muscles in John’s back relaxed a bit.

“Sit down,” he murmured. “I’ll make us some toast.”

He squeezed her gently before letting her go. She closed her eyes.

She woke to a still dark room. The bed was empty next to her and the sheets felt cool against her hand – he’d been gone a while then. No signs of struggle though, and his shoes were gone. Alright, he needed some space, that was fine.

Slowly, she got out of bed, slipped into a pair of fuzzy slippers and walked into the attached bathroom. She stripped herself of her nightclothes and had a painfully hot shower, forcing herself to keep her chin high and not let her eyes drift down. She cleaned her body almost roughly, trying to rid herself of the hopelessness and grief along with the sweat. Her bruises ached and some of her scratches began to weep. She ignored them. 

After drying herself, she threw on a clean housecoat. By the time she got downstairs, early morning light was just beginning to filter in through the kitchen window. The thought of facing another day, of going on with life after it felt like everything had been ripped away from her, had her bracing herself against the counter. It was unbearable, unbelievable that such a loss could have occurred to her. To them. She knew the chances of miscarriage, the statistics of stillbirths, but they’d been past that. She’d been ready, _they’d_ been ready. They’d even chosen a name. 

She took a ragged breath as strong arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind. Relaxing into the embrace, she let her husband pull her tight against his chest. She could feel each exhalation against her cheek and the scratch of his stubble against her shoulder and neck. She felt grounded, loved. She squeezed his hands gratefully and his breath hitched and then steadied again. The kindness and strength in that tiny gesture nearly overwhelmed her. Tears in her eyes, she turned in John’s arms to place her hands on his face.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” she whispered, forcing herself not to look away from the pain and uncertainty in his tired eyes. “We’re meant to support each other. Don’t hold it in.” _Like you did with Sherlock_ , she didn’t add.

John’s expressive face crumpled, grief in each devastating line. She gasped in empathy and he pulled her tight against him, placing his chin on her head as he shuddered.

“I was meant to protect you,” he forced out, voice hoarse. “I was going to be a father.”

Suddenly recognizing what was happening, she stiffened in his arms. She’d dreamt this. This was exactly the same as in her dream. She’d seen it, and now it was happening. Mind reeling, heart hammering in her chest, she held onto John tightly, unable to speak.

“Sit down,” he murmured at last. “I’ll make us some toast.”

He squeezed her gently before letting her go. She closed her eyes to mask her panic.

***

This tracking thing was coming in pretty handy. Steven pounded on the red door between him and where the pull was telling him little Brayden Yi was situated. Yi smelled/sounded/tasted like stagnancy, like static and plastic and electricity. There was no way he’d have found this little mouse without his newfound skill. As it was, he’d had some difficulty getting a solid trail initially – it seemed that the better Mitchell knew the person, the easier it was to find them.

“Open up, Brayden!” Mitchell yelled. “You wouldn’t refuse an old friend, would ya?” 

Mitchell was considering taking out the old lock picks again when the door opened a couple of inches, revealing a glimpse of a scrawny Asian kid, somewhere in his twenties maybe, hiding behind the chains that stopped the door from being forced open.

“Steve!” he exclaimed with a nervous smile. “How you been, mate?”

“Oh, I’ve been better,” Mitchell replied, flashing a charming smile. “But you are just the man I was hoping to see. Actually, I think it’s about time I collect that favour from you, _mate_.” That always sounded threatening with his American accent.

“Uh…”

Letting a dangerous edge seep into his smile, Mitchell leaned forward until his face was only a foot away and lowered his voice. He hadn’t bothered to conceal the scar on his face today – in cases like this, the jagged, still-pink line running from his right temple to his cheekbone to his ear was a good intimidation tactic. “You know I could just kick this door down, Brayden. All I need is a little favour, so why don’t you be a good lad and let me in?”

Yi’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed. “Ya, of course, of course,” he mumbled. He closed the door to undo all the chains before opening it again and stepping back. “Anything I can do for you.”

Mitchell stepped into the entranceway, taking in the tacky, but pricey, decorations and furnishings, from the empty aquarium to Yi’s silk shirt decorated with little pineapples to the Spiderman clock on the wall. There also appeared to be a high-tech surveillance camera concealed in the eye of a bust of Spock. “Business is going well, I see.”

Yi kept his eyes low as he nodded. “Been designing tons of sites lately. Lots of hacking on the side, too. Did a job for some posh bloke just last week.” He grinned then and looked up. “Wanted me to plant some incriminating info on his wife’s work accounts. Paid me a hefty sum, too.” At Mitchell’s look he quickly continued. “Course I’m not expecting any payment from you, Steve. Like you said, just a favour between mates. And I mean, after how you took care of those pricks two years ago it’s the least I can do.” His smile looked rather pained.

“I’m glad we have an understanding,” Mitchell agreed. “Lead the way.”

“Right,” Yi muttered, turning and heading down a set of stairs to a basement. 

Mitchell couldn’t help but be impressed by the plethora of computers, gadgets and tech he could see. The kid had come a long way in the past couple of years. Of course, considering he had been planting personalized viruses onto rich jerks’ computers two years ago and barely escaping with his scrawny ass still attached, that wasn’t saying much. Mitchell had always seen the potential though.

Taking a seat in front of an expensive-looking laptop, Yi signed in with a fingerprint scan, a voice recognition test and a typed password. Mitchell rolled his eyes.

“So, what’ll it be?” Yi asked, more confident now that he had his tools at his disposal.

“I need you to look up Mycroft Holmes. Officially, he has a minor position in the British government, but I think there’s more to him than that.”

“Mycroft Holmes?” Yi asked in surprise. “As in related to Sherlock Holmes? That guy needs to put more security on his site. Sherlock, not the other one. Is he the father or something?”

Mitchell took a deep breath to promote patience and ignored the urge to smash the nerd’s face into his beloved computer. “Mycroft Holmes,” he ground out. 

Flinching, Yi’s hands began to fly across the keyboard, opening search engines, government sites and overriding high security restrictions with a few complicated-looking lines of code. Mitchell smirked as he watched. Yes, saving this kid had been a brilliant investment. 

After several minutes, Mitchell asked, “What’ve you got?”

“Well, based on his age, I’m going with brother, not father. And you’re right about him officially. The only legitimate papers on him show his post as a deputy director of UK Trade and Investment. ‘Bout as minor as you can get. However, there’s evidence here of something, else… Give me a minute, it’s pretty encrypted…” He typed in a flurry for another ten minutes or so, Mitchell taking a seat in a chair designed to look like a hotdog to watch. “Yeah, yeah, see this?” Yi asked suddenly. “This is his signature on a five-year-old contract with the President of South Korea. And this is his seal of approval for a ‘Bond Air’ mission, which was ultimately abandoned last minute, but still. And look—” Yi clicked to open another document when a large ‘Access Denied’ sign flashed across his screen. “Fuck,” he muttered, entering more lines of code.

“Can you find his address?” Mitchell demanded, standing behind the hacker’s shoulder now. “I need to know where he lives.”

Yi froze, suddenly tense. “Um… maybe? Why?”

Mitchell gripped his bony shoulder tightly. “Not the answer I’m looking for, kid.”

“Alright, alright, relax,” he gasped, his voice high. “I’ll look, I just… you’re not planning on killin’ him, are you?”

“Mycroft Holmes? No, of course not.” 

Yi hesitated, thinking about that answer.

“Brayden,” Mitchell growled warningly, tightening his grip until the kid flinched.

“Okay, okay, I’m doing it, see?”

Hands shaking a bit now, Yi resumed his typing, growing more nervous as his searches turned up fruitless. “Shit, okay, just let me try…” Suddenly another ‘Access Denied’ sign flashed on the screen, but this time his entire screen suddenly went blue. He gave an undignified little squeak when ‘Government Property’ and ‘Forced System Shut Down’ flashed in red letters in quick succession. 

Mitchell yanked Yi’s rolling chair back and turned it so he could lean over the hacker. “What’s that?” he growled. “Did you find it?”

Yi looked about ready to piss himself. “It completely locked me out! It’s not my fault – look, it’s frying my entire computer!” He wailed, looking for all the world as if he’d just witnessed the death of a beloved pet.

Mitchell glanced over to see a black screen with rows of green script flowing from bottom to top. Furious, he grabbed Yi’s ridiculous silk shirt so he could snarl in his face. “So you didn’t find it, then?”

Utterly cowed, Yi shook his head, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he squeaked. When Mitchell took a growling breath, he closed his eyes and flinched back. “No! Please, don’t hurt me!”

Pausing, Mitchell took a lungful of air and held it for several seconds before slowly releasing it. Stiffly, he relaxed his grip on Yi’s shirt and finally stepped back, rolling his shoulders and head in a bid to relax. When he looked back, Yi was shaky and pale. 

“Not gonna hurt you, Brayden,” he reassured him. “I won’t lie, I’m pretty pissed off, but,” he clenched and released his fists, “Because we’re _mates_ , and I know you didn’t do it on purpose, I’ll let you off the hook for this one, alright?”

Terrified, Yi nodded jerkily once.

Smirking, Mitchell leaned forward to ruffle his greasy hair, watching his flinch with amusement. “Keep it up, kid. You’ve come a long way.” He flashed the hacker a charming smile, turned around, and left the house.


	6. I'd Do Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and John were attacked and Sherlock didn't know about it.

Andrea, more distracted by her BlackBerry than usual, delivered Sherlock’s new mobile to him – he absently noted the presence of a new voicemail (unimportant, dull) – at seven the next morning. Sherlock didn’t waste any time with starting on his lead. Annoyingly, with Mitchell still out there looking for him, Sherlock couldn’t feasibly leave the house without significant risk to his person, so he’d have to do this long distance (frustrating, tedious).

“Lestrade, I need you to investigate the office the sniper shots originated from and tell me everything you can about the employee that worked there.”

“When did I become your personal messenger?” the DI replied, his voice sounding a bit flat over the phone. “And where are you calling from?”

“New mobile, different number – this one’s not on my site. And since I can’t leave house arrest without being accompanied or shot at,” Sherlock replied scathingly, “you should be flattered I’m depending on you.”

“John’s busy, is he?” His voice sounded both amused and mocking.

Sherlock ignored this. “Are you at the scene now?” He thought he could detect the sound of radios and police-talk in the background.

“Yes, but, technically, it’s Dimmock’s case. I’m only allowed to stay if I don’t interfere.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. “But you actually witnessed the shooting. Why wouldn’t you get the case?”

“It’s because I was involved that I didn’t get it.”

Sherlock struggled to find the logic.

“They probably knew I’d end up spilling my guts to you,” Lestrade continued, sounding resigned. 

Ah. “Is Miss Misra present?”

“Who?”

“The woman whose office the sniper used,” Sherlock replied, exasperated. “I thought you said you were on scene.”

“I’m in the building, you git, relax,” Lestrade snapped back.

“On the security footage, Miss Misra is seen accepting a hot beverage from a man, likely a fellow employee,” it was Mitchell, but Lestrade wouldn’t know who that was, “at 8:18. She is then quickly leaving her office, in apparent abdominal distress, at 8:20. At 8:24, the same man, now carrying a laptop bag, enters her office and closes the door behind him. Are you there yet?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he confirmed, sounding thoroughly irritated.

“I would like to speak with Miss Misra if at all possible.”

“Sherlock, this entire place is a wreck after the – the storm and it’s a crime scene to boot. The only workers here are just here to grab their things and leave.”

Sherlock gave an irritated huff. “Fine. Have her brought in for questioning.” The sound of outraged spluttering could be heard. “Is a manager or boss there, at least?”

A sigh. “I can check.”

“Wait! Before you do, send me photos of the office so I can look at evidence.”

“You know I can’t—”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If it makes you feel better I’ll delete the crime scene photos after I’ve looked at them.”

A pause. Gruffly: “Fine.”

“Wonderful. Call me back once you’ve found someone with actual knowledge.”

The line went dead.

A minute later his mobile vibrated with several received photos. Attaching his mobile wirelessly to his laptop, he observed the shots on the bigger screen, taking in the scratches on the floor where the bi-pod had sat, the Starbucks container on its side, the puddle of tea/coffee combination on the table and floor, and the way the furniture had been pushed aside to provide access to the window. Sherlock sent off a quick text to Lestrade:

_Have the beverage tested for toxins. SH_

Then:

_Need to know about recently-hired temp. Found manager yet? SH_

Ten minutes later and Sherlock was beginning to despair of Lestrade’s detective skills, when at last his mobile rang.

“Finally,” Sherlock greeted. 

“Shut it,” Lestrade ordered. “Listen, I’m passing you to Mr. Liam Sheehan. He does most of the interviews and hiring.”

There was the sound of some shuffling and then a rich voice with a slight Irish lilt to it: “Mr. Holmes, how can I help you?” 

“Mr. Sheehan, yes. Could you give me the name of the temp you hired in the last week that fits this description: male, forty,” _don’t say American, he could change his accent_ , “ash-brown hair, glasses, slight limp, charming, claustrophobic –” 

“Jared Holt,” Sheehan interrupted. “The man flirts more than he works,” he explained.

“Perfect, please give all his information, including email address and mobile number, to the DI Lestrade.”

“Well, we don’t really have much personal information on him. He was in the process of moving from America, you see,” _hm, maybe not so good at accents, then_ , “so he didn’t have a phone set up yet and was between addresses. He provided an email address that he has instant access to in case he needed to be contacted.”

Sherlock sighed. If one was moving into a new home and did not own a mobile (and in this day and age the chances of that were practically nil), one’s highest priority would logically be to set up a landline, before internet even. Therefore having constant access to an email account without even having a phone number would be entirely unrealistic. And even with the ability to check his email at internet cafes and the like, Mr. Holt had been here over a week and still no landline set up? The man had simply been unwilling to give out his mobile number. Mr. Sheehan was terribly gullible. 

“Send everything you have to Lestrade.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Sherlock agreed, eyebrows raised.

“Oi!” came Lestrade’s voice. Again some shuffling, then clearer: “What’s the temp got to do with our shooter?”

Sherlock groaned in despair for the human race. “How is it that you have one hundred billion neurons in your head and yet you use none of them? The temp _is_ our shooter.”

“Excuse me?” Sheehan.

“Explain.” Lestrade.

John was never this slow. Not nearly as frustrating at the very least. 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began. “The sniper, after broadcasting the message, would need to have constant surveillance of the scene in order to know when the location had been discovered. He needed to have quick access to a prime location for a clear shot – any one of the offices on the right side of the building from the fourth floor up, or the roof as a last resort. Before broadcasting the message, he would have studied the layout of several potential locations – he’s good at planning. This one was clearly the best due to the cubicles primarily located against the window facing the street and the building across the way. Once hired, Holt, possibly suffering from claustrophobia, would have been given a cubicle against the window to provide him with the view and, most importantly, a position to observe his setup from half eight until eighteen o’clock nearly every day. Now, while offering a prime surveillance spot, pulling out a sniper rifle in a barely private cubicle would not be ideal, especially when taking the extra panes of glass into account. Hence, the flirting. Get friendly with some of the office owners, hand out beverages like an overly enthusiastic colleague… Then, when the time is right, it would be the easiest thing in the world to spike a coffee with an emetic. An office is rendered vacant, he has a private spot to take a shot or two from the window, he pulls the fire alarm as he’s leaving and he slips away without a hitch,” he finished triumphantly. “And the storm was an added bonus.” 

“Well, what about when he wasn’t at work? How’d he keep an eye out then?” Lestrade queried.

“Ah, now you’re on the right track,” Sherlock murmured deprecatingly. “Send me his personal information,” he ordered.

“And I’ll try to find this Jared Holt?”

“Good idea,” Sherlock agreed and hung up. Lestrade would never find Holt seeing as the man didn’t exist. Mitchell had so many pseudonyms he wouldn’t be surprised if Steven Mitchell was nothing but an alias, as well. But hopefully something in the fake CV and personal information would provide some insight to the sniper’s whereabouts.

***

Exhaustion made Mary’s body feel heavy and clumsy. The listlessness seeping through her limbs would have been worrying if she could rouse herself enough to care. John was seated at the kitchen table, unmoving since after breakfast, with crumb covered plates still occupying the space. His lips were pursed and his chin high, control evident in every painfully tense line. From where Mary sat on the couch, her husband looked particularly old, his hair appearing more gray than blond and the creases in his face seeming considerably deeper than just the other day. She wondered idly if he had booked off work or if he had just not gone in.

Slowly, feeling like an old woman, Mary lay back on the couch, rolling on her side so she faced outwards and so that the weight of her abdomen wouldn’t make her feel like she was suffocating. She felt herself slip deeper into lethargy, her body like lead and her mind a screaming mess. As she straddled the division between consciousness and sleep she thought she could feel hands stroking her hair and the whispered words “Anything… Anything, I’d do anything…” breathed against her temple, but the next moment she slipped into total darkness and forgot about it.

She floated dreamlessly for an indeterminate amount of time.

She woke to the sound of the back door being kicked in. Startled, a jolt of adrenaline spurring her into movement, she jumped up as John shouted. Gun, where was her gun? Sounds of scuffling came from the kitchen and she looked around for a weapon in the sitting room. 

“Mary, get out!” John shouted.

Fuck, why had she left her gun upstairs? They didn’t even have a fireplace, so no sharp, steel poker at her disposal. 

A pained yell and a terrible crash. Whirling, Mary looked to see a man of insignificant height but considerable muscle, face hidden with a black ski mask and standing over John. John was sprawled amongst the pieces of their broken table and, as Mary watched, the intruder plunged a knife into her husband’s throat. 

Mary didn’t scream. Only a tortured sound of horror escaped her lips. Spotting a letter opener, she grabbed the pitiful weapon as the man viciously yanked the Russian combat knife from John’s neck, causing his body to jerk and leaving him wide-eyed with shock. Mary charged at the murderer, ignoring a sharp pull in her lower abdomen and raised the hand gripping the small blade as she prepared to lunge. Whipping around, the man delivered a blow to her face with his elbow, knocking her to the ground effortlessly. Stooping down, he grabbed her by the throat and hauled her up. Pressing her back against the wall next to the telephone desk, he lifted her a bit more, forcing her on tiptoe with one hand around her neck and another gripping her wrist closest to the desk. Desperately, she kicked and lashed out with her free hand, but choking and dangling as she was, she couldn’t get the necessary momentum to cause much damage. 

“Miss Amy Arlington,” growled the man, voice thick with a Russian accent. “Or should I say Mrs. Watson?”

He was close enough that Mary could smell the pickled egg on his breath and see the hazel flecks in his green eyes. His grip was painful, but just loose enough to allow her a shallow breath every now and then. 

“Do you remember Nadia?” he asked conversationally. “My beautiful Nadia of only seventeen years.” His voice turned ugly and his grip tightened briefly, completely cutting off her air. “It was the night of her marriage when you put a bullet through her head.”

Mary scratched at his face, attempting to pull off the mask, but her spastic movements were useless. She could see John’s motionless legs sprawled on the floor and red seeping onto the linoleum. Not as much as there should be with a throat wound – his heart had already stopped beating. 

“You destroyed my life and lost me a fortune with a single twitch of the finger. You are lucky that your husband made such noise – I don’t have time to make this as slow as I’d hoped.” 

Her vision was going a bit hazy. He loosened his grip a bit, allowing her a gasp of air.

“I think I’ll start here. A child for a child.” He pressed the point of his already bloody Spetsnaz knife into her abdomen. Collecting saliva in her mouth, she spit in his face. Snarling, he knocked her head painfully against the wall and dug the knife in deeper.

The pain forced a gurgled moan from her throat.

She woke to the sound of the back door being kicked in.

Disoriented and panicked, she sat up on the couch, hands flying to the lack of puncture wound in her abdomen. A chair scraped against the kitchen floor as John jumped up from his seat. No. Oh, God, no. It was happening again. She’d dreamt it and now it was happening. 

“John, run!” she yelled, jumping up and dashing for the stairs. Adrenaline sped her on faster than was probably safe. She felt a twinge in her belly that she ignored. She could hear the sound of scuffling coming from the kitchen. She grabbed her gun from under the bed and rushed back for the stairs.

“Mary, get out!” John shouted.

She was halfway down the stairs. Safety off.

A pained yell and a terrible crash. No, no, no, no.

She was around the corner. Hammer engaged. 

Dmitri’s hand, gripping the dagger, was raised.

“No!” She pulled the trigger. 

Head-shot, instant kill. The Spetsnaz knife, clean, un-bloodied, clattered to the ground just before Dmitri’s body collapsed. Avoiding the blood and brain matter, Mary hurried to John’s side. Uncaring, she shoved the Russian’s body aside and knelt down. John was staring at her with eyes wide with surprise, but this time there was still life in them. Relieved, she pulled him into a tight embrace. He gasped in pain but wrapped his arms around her.

“That – that was… impressive. Terrifying, but impressive.”

“What was?” she murmured into his neck.

He gave a weak laugh. “You! How did you know…?”

She made a dismissive motion with her head. “Good instincts?” she offered.

“Jesus Christ.”

The sound of banging on their door made them both jump.

“Mary? John? Is everything alright in there?” 

John sighed. “Guess we terrified the neighbours.” Painfully, he got to his feet, still breathing hard. “I should call Lestrade.”

“I think the authorities are already on the way,” Mary replied, hearing the approach of sirens.

“Mary! John!”

“It’s always nice to have a familiar face, though. And this has to have something to do with the sniper attack yesterday. There’s no way this is a coincidence.” He went towards the front door where their neighbour was still knocking frantically. 

Mary doubted Dmitri Lapteva’s attempted revenge for the death of his murderous, drug-dealing daughter had anything to do with Moriarty, but she kept her mouth shut. John hadn’t even been the real target, she had, but if her identity had been compromised, neither one of them were safe. She just hoped Lapteva hadn’t shared her location with anyone else.

***

When two of Mycroft’s men pushed a scrawny, unkempt man-child with Chinese heritage into their boss’s office, Mycroft was unimpressed and unsurprised by the skilled hacker’s appearance.

“Mr. Yi,” Mycroft greeted as the young man was sat in the chair in front of him. Mycroft dismissed the agents with a tip of the head. As they walked out, Mycroft noted the way the boy’s eyes were sharp and keen behind his greasy bangs, darting around the office, pausing briefly on the expensive computer, new mobile on the desk and the nearly invisible security cameras. Wanting to exude an air of casualty and power simultaneously, the government official got up from his chair and walked around his desk to lean against the front of it, crossing his arms and tilting his chin to look the hacker in the face. “So,” he began, letting a bit of offensive disbelief colour his voice, “you’re the one that attempted the rather juvenile hacking job on my private documents.” The job had been far from juvenile. Rather impressive, actually – it had taken ten minutes before it had been properly caught and blocked. The jab had the desired effect, however.

Yi lifted his chin and glared at Mycroft defiantly. “Those codes were far from juvenile. They’ve never even been used before – I made them myself. And it took a solid fifteen minutes before your security system even picked up on it. Bit embarrassing if you ask me.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. _Nine minutes and forty-eight seconds, don’t oversell it, child._

“Yes, ‘it is so’. I’m one of the best hackers in London. Do you have any idea how many people come to me for help?” he boasted, apparently unconcerned that he was confessing his crimes. “And your security cameras are rubbish. I can see three just from this seat.”

“He’s right you know,” Sherlock agreed, making Yi jump as he barged into the room.

Mycroft sighed. His little brother could never just sit and wait patiently. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” Yi asked in disbelief. 

Oh, for God’s sake. “Mr. Yi,” Mycroft began, drawing the hacker’s attention back to him. “It seems you’ve been running a rather lucrative and illegal business for some years. Unfortunately, those types of activities could get you into a great deal of trouble with the authorities.”

Yi paled in his seat. “What are you... Is that a threat?”

Sherlock snorted from where he was leaning against the door, causing Yi to whip around and flinch at the cold indifference on his face. 

“Fuck! I’m only a gray hat at most! You won’t really arrest me?”

Sherlock raised an uncaring eyebrow in response. Amusingly, the hacker’s eyes appeared a little wet. 

Mycroft figured that, despite the term ‘gray hat’ being completely unfamiliar, due to the combination of black and white, with black most typically representing evil and white most typically representing goodness, that being a ‘gray hat’ most likely meant that Yi thought of himself as a general hacker, doing both malicious and non-malicious jobs.

“Your most recent attempts to break into a high security government database could be classified as cyberwarfare.” Mycroft put as much disapproval in his voice as he could, overdoing it a bit so it would be clear for the socially inept criminal. “And we are all bound by the law.” Mycroft continued thoughtfully: “Although, if, hypothetically, you were willing to put your skills towards more moral purposes – work for the right side, as it were – I imagine some sort of deal could be agreed upon.”

Yi glared at him suspiciously. “Like on the telly when the criminal helps out the coppers and gets a reduced sentence?”

“Precisely.” Mycroft gave him a politely detached smile.

Yi hesitated, eyes darting around again.

Losing patience, Sherlock stepped forward and got into the hacker’s personal space, leaning over him intimidatingly. “Here’s what’s happening: you are going to do as I say, and maybe you won’t be sent to jail for the next twenty years. Alright?” he added brightly, flashing a smile.

The hacker looked unsettled at the detective for a silent moment, then a hesitant grin twitched onto his face. “So, are you saying that Sherlock Holmes is my next client?”

Sherlock leaned back, unamused. 

“Yes,” declared Mycroft. “Think of it as a job interview. If you are able to aid Mr. Sherlock Holmes, we’ll consider giving you a more permanent position.”

“’We’?”

“The British government,” Mycroft clarified.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock explained at the same time. 

Yi looked between the two brothers. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’ll do whatever job it is you want done, but first…” He looked at Sherlock with a curious expression.

“What?” demanded the consulting detective.

“Deduce me.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Mycroft muttered, exasperated. 

Sherlock, never one to pass up an opportunity to show off, studied the hacker narrowly. “You’re a drop-out, never finished school, though you went somewhere expensive, private. Mother’s a hypochondriac and father left when you were, mmm, fifteen years old. ‘Bout the time you dropped out, most likely. Classic geek, you were bullied, not online though, no, that was your escape. Never had any pets, no siblings, obvious parental neglect, so you hid in the internet, more so than usual for young boys, especially after the failed attempt at sexual intercourse in your late teens. Not so much video games,” Sherlock glanced at the hacker’s hands, “but definitely online gaming. Found ways to get back at your bullies online, made up accounts and some basic cyberbullying led to hacking. Lived in your mother’s basement until about three years ago I’d say, based on the shirt and lack of nutrition obvious in your unhealthy skin and hair, when something changed – you met someone… Mmm, not a girlfriend, not even a friend… Father figure perhaps? Then your business took off, most likely not a coincidence, and since then you’ve been creating increasingly complicated computer codes, though nothing good enough to hack government property, unfortunately for you.” 

Sherlock handed a wide-eyed Yi a manila file folder from Mycroft’s desk as he finished. Mycroft bit his tongue so as not to point out what his little brother had missed about the boy’s tendency to masturbate to cartoon fantasy characters.

Yi took the folder automatically, not looking away from the detective. “You’re kind of a prick you know,” he informed him, finally shifting his attention to the information in his hands. “Not as scary as Steve, of course, but…” Yi opened the folder and his eyes went wide in horror. “You want me to hack Steven Mitchell?” He looked aghast. 

“Problem?” Sherlock asked innocently. 

“Seeing as he used you to get to us, I think it’s only fair to return the favour, don’t you?” Mycroft smiled blandly.

“Well… I guess, but… Jesus, he’ll kill me if he finds out!”

“He won’t get the chance,” Mycroft said at pleasantly as possible – the little whinger was getting on his nerves.

“Use the email listed to find the location of Mitchell’s mobile phone,” Sherlock ordered, getting straight to business.

Having already glanced at the papers, Mycroft knew that the file that Yi was holding contained information of one of Mitchell’s aliases, Jared Holt. The majority of the information, such as the postal code, birth date, qualifications, etc. were fake – the makings of the alias. However, there had to be at least one legitimate way for his employer to contact him for Mitchell to acquire his job at the insurance firm. Moving around as he was, it was unlikely that Mitchell would have a landline or computer of any kind, even a laptop. A mobile however, was almost essential and it would be with said portable device that the man would check his emails.

“What if the mobile blocks GPS?”

“That’s why we’re using you,” Sherlock explained, exasperated. “Now hurry up and get started – you can use Mycroft’s computer.”

Mycroft grimaced as the young man threw himself into his comfortable arm chair and placed his fingers on the keyboard before stopping.

“I suppose, as a show of good will, that I should let you log onto your own account?”

One side of Sherlock’s lips twitched in amusement as Mycroft awkwardly leant over and around the hacker to quickly type in his lengthy password. Yi dramatically averted his eyes.

“You can tell what it is based on the sound of the keys clicking, don’t pretend you can’t,” Sherlock muttered. 

Yi smirked and set about tapping away. Sherlock began pacing and Mycroft unbuttoned his suit jacket to sit in the single chair in front of his desk with a look as distaste. 

“You guys just gonna hang around and watch me?”

“You’ll understand if I don’t trust to leave you alone just yet,” Mycroft replied dryly.

Yi shrugged. As he worked, Sherlock checked his expression periodically, noting the concentration and confidence. When he appeared more frustrated, Sherlock stopped his pacing to ask sharply: “What is it?”

Frowning, the hacker kept his eyes glued to the screen. “Either his mobile doesn’t have GPS, which seems unlikely, or there’s some A-level shit blocking me out. You know he’s practically a spy, right? Not even I can compete with some of their gear. For location, the best I can do is give you a general four kilometre radius based on the radio tower he’s accessing...”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But?” 

“But, I can get you his mobile number,” Yi grinned, eyes bright.

Sherlock’s face remained impassive, but there was victory in his eyes.

Mycroft looked between the two. “Yes, that’ll do very well, I think.”


	7. Problems of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's past was catching up to her.

Upon arriving at Amy and Watson’s home and seeing it surrounded by cop cars, Mitchell realized he had made an unfortunate miscalculation in revealing Amy’s identity. As a large body bag was wheeled out of the house, he was just glad that Amy was still as much of a badass as ever, even pregnant. 

More experimentation with his newfound ‘tracking’ ability, as he had dubbed it, had revealed that he could only reliably track people he knew on some level. Amy, he could track with ease thanks to their years of being together and doing missions together. Little Brayden, he had saved and helped out two years ago. Dmitri he had also been acquainted with and had been able to catch up to today just as the trail had suddenly cut off several minutes ago, like a flame going out. That had been disconcerting. John Watson he couldn’t accurately track because he’d never met the man (he’d been only thinking ‘Watson’ the first time he’d tried and had been led to ‘Mrs. Watson’ instead), though he could get a general sense from him. Sherlock, for whatever reason, Mitchell could not sense at all. It was like he simply didn’t exist. He’d wondered if maybe the detective had died somehow, but there was nothing on the news, so that seemed unlikely. It would be terribly disappointing if Sherlock died before Mitchell could get to him.

So, as far as Mitchell could figure, Amy was his only chance of getting to Sherlock. Eventually, Watson would visit Holmes and Amy would go with Watson and Mitchell would be able to simply follow them there. If Amy died, he’d have no way of finding the detective unless he somehow followed Watson 24/7. And he’d never had the patience for surveillance, hence the temp job as a distraction while he’d waited for Sherlock to wander into his trap. 

Hopefully Dmitri hadn’t spilled the beans about Amy, because now that Mitchell needed her alive, he was going to have to become a protector of sorts to keep the attackers’ vengeful bullets away from her. Although, maybe with more violence centred on her, the Holmes brothers would come out to play. Or Amy would just up and leave. God he hoped she didn’t skip town again – what a pain that would be.

Mitchell sighed and leaned back into the alleyway, taking a drag on his cigarette. He hated when things got complicated. He much preferred just taking aim and firing.  
He jumped a little when his cell phone began vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the unfamiliar phone number – who would possibly want to call him? – and shrugging, answered it.

“Yeah? Who’s this?” 

“Steven Mitchell, so it is you,” came a distinct deep voice. Mitchell had only heard it briefly nearly a year and a half ago, but it was undeniably familiar. 

Mitchell was so shocked that for a moment he stood there with his cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Sherlock Holmes. How the hell did you find this number?”

“Oh, I have my methods,” he rumbled smugly. “And my contacts. But don’t you worry about that. What I want to know is what we can do to settle this little spat of ours. I’m starting to get cabin fever. ”

“Little spat?” Mitchell hissed. “You killed my boss, destroyed the entire crime syndicate that gave me my living, tried to imprison me and sent me to hospital for over a year. You’ve ruined my life, Holmes.”

“I’ve ruined your life? And now you want revenge?” Sherlock sighed deeply. “How dull. Really, it could have been so much more interesting.”

“You want interesting?” Mitchell spit, looking over at where a shaky John Watson was being helped by his wife into an ambulance. “What about your sidekick, Holmes? Find him interesting? Because right now I’m watching him getting put into an ambulance and I don’t see you anywhere nearby.”

Silence from Holmes. Mitchell grinned.

“And what about his wife, hm? Oh, and the lovely baby. Won’t they make the most adorable family? Except ‘Mary’ is not all that she seems, now is she? She’s got some dark secrets. Did you know –”

Shit, was that a sniper rifle on top of that house?

Mitchell glanced around quickly, taking in Watson sitting in the ambulance, the cops milling in and out of Watson’s house and Amy standing near the ambulance providing a clear sight for the sniper. Shit. Dmitri had spilled the beans.

“What? Do I know what?” Holmes was demanding.

“That things are about to get _much_ more interesting.” Mitchell smirked as he hung up.

Alright, think fast: Holmes was alarmed now. Which meant he’d get his superhuman government brother to come collect his friends, possibly leading Mitchell to Sherlock. Which meant Amy really couldn’t die yet. Which meant he needed to stop that sniper somehow. Alright. He was too far away to simply run and tackle her, especially with all the cops. But the sniper was still setting up, he could see, and Mitchell had his handgun on his person. It wasn’t ideal, but desperate times and all that. From where he was standing, all he could see of the potential assassin was the typical black garb snipers wore to hide, so he couldn’t even tell if he knew him. Or her. Oh, well. Mitchell wouldn’t hesitate to kill his own mother if she was between him and something he wanted.

Oh, the sniper was taking aim. Now or never.

God, this was going to be chaos.

***

Lestrade arrived on scene in time to see John getting checked over in an ambulance, Mary standing close by. Quickly he walked up to them.

“You guys alright?” he demanded, taking in John’s battered appearance and Mary’s watery eyes.

“We’ll live,” Mary replied, giving a weak smile. “Just some excitement for a Tuesday afternoon.”

The DI gave her a sympathetic smile. “What happened?” He looked at Mary and then John, who was currently getting his back inspected. 

“Dunno,” the army doctor spoke up. “This crazy bloke,” he indicated the body bag in the next ambulance, “just broke in and started attacking me. Mary distracted him and I, uh, took care of him.”

Lestrade glanced between them suspiciously. Mary was glaring hard at her husband. 

“Took care of him?” Lestrade repeated.

“Ya, in self-defence,” John muttered.

Lestrade pursed his lips. Then several things happened at once: John’s mobile began ringing in his pocket, Mary gasped, and a shot rang out.

“Get down! Everybody, get down!” an officer yelled.

Mary hit the ground the same time John leaped forward to grab her. 

As the screaming and shouting began and officers scrambled to find the shooter, Lestrade hustled the two back into the ambulance and closed the doors behind them.

***

In the dark of the ambulance, its motor not running, John gripped Mary’s arms. “Are you hurt?” He ran his hands over her quickly checking for injury. Instinctively, he placed his hands on her pregnant belly. “Are you okay?”

John couldn’t see Mary’s expression, but he heard her gasp. She gripped his hands and gently removed them from her stomach. “No,” she choked out and John clenched his eyes closed at his thoughtlessness; for a moment he’d forgotten.

“Mary, I – I’m so –” he was cut off as his wife placed her lips to the corner of his, trying to find him in the darkness. She wrapped his arms around her and buried her hands in his hair, feeling the slightly coarse strands against her fingertips. She kissed him more insistently then, finding the right placement as she gently sucked his thin bottom lip. John gave a moan that sounded more like pain than pleasure, but was quick to reciprocate with his tongue tracing hers. In the dark, with the sounds of shouting and panic outside, they kissed and stroked and pressed together with all the built up pain and sorrow and love from the past two days. If only they could stay here like this and pretend that everything was fine, that the baby was on the way, that Sherlock was at their side and that no one was shooting at them. John had his hands tangled in Mary’s soft, blond hair when she moved her hands to his shoulders and gently pushed him away. 

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips.

John swallowed thickly before responding. “I love you.”

Mary ran her fingers over his face, trying to discern his expression through touch as she spoke. “John. I don’t know how and I don’t know who they are, but they’ve found me.”

“‘They’?”

She hesitated. “The problems of my past,” she paraphrased, hoping he’d understand.

Under her fingertips, John froze. He felt that surprising jolt of anger that still flashed through him from time to time, inspired by her lying, her lack of trust in him and her unknown past. John knew she could sense his reaction, but she said nothing, waiting for him to make a move. He took a calming breath. Yes, she had made mistakes, but John loved her and wanted to be with her. He’d told her that her future was his privilege and he’d meant it. In light of that, there was only one appropriate response: “What do we do?”

Mary gasped out a relieved laugh. “We?”

His brow furrowed. “Mrs. Watson, do you really think I’d let you go off on an adventure without me?”

“It’ll be dangerous.”

“Mmm, all the more tempting. Did you know that’s what Sherlock said to me to get me to help him on his first case?”

“Did he now? Well that’s convenient – we might need his help, as well.”

“He’ll be overjoyed. Should we just stay and hide in here until all is calm, then?” John ran his hands down her neck, to her shoulders, down her arms and to her waist. She shivered.

“No, they’ll have seen us jump in here. We need to sneak off while there’s still a commotion going on.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know who exactly is after me, but they’ll definitely have rifles with scopes. Stay low and zig-zag until you can hug a wall.”

“Is that the technical term? ‘Zig-zag’?”

“Shut up.” She pecked him once, missing his mouth and getting his chin. “On the count of three.”

“Wait, are you sure about this?” John asked, deliberately placing his hands on her stomach.

She grasped his hands. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t run full out.”

_She would have loved this,_ John thought, unable to stop the dark thought. _She loved it when Mary’s belly jiggled._ He remembered the way she’d kick away when he and Mary had sex, her little feet pressing against his hand through the layers of skin and fat of his wife’s abdomen. 

“One…” Mary let go of one of his hands. “Two…” She let go of the other. They turned to face the back doors. “Three!” 

Mary threw the doors open, momentarily blinding them with the sudden burst of light. Not waiting for their eyes to adjust, they jumped down from the ambulance, John helping Mary with a grip on her elbow, and off they went down the street, skirting police cars and policemen alike. Some officers, those that had them, had their handguns out. Others were speaking into radios, asking for backup and dispatch teams while still others were scouring the area, looking for the shooter. It was organized chaos, and as Mary and John hurried between them and beyond, they ignored the shouts directed their way. Mary couldn’t run, but she could walk pretty damn fast and people tended to clear the way for an angry-looking pregnant woman. 

“This way!” Mary turned a corner, leading them down Daventry Street in a familiar direction.

“Tube?” 

“Underground is about as safe from snipers as you can get,” she agreed looking over her shoulder at him. “We’ll catch a cab on –” She broke off with a gasp, eyes locking on something behind them.

Turning, John looked and saw the man, maybe ten metres away, pursuing them, his sights set on Mary. John’s protective instincts flared, his desire to shield his family from this man who would do them harm overwhelming everything else. The man’s eyes focused on him, surprised, and John thought _no, enough, STOP_ and something seemed to explode out of him. 

A wall of cool, blue light expanded from his body like a shield, like a force field, growing, exploding to reach their pursuer within seconds. When the light hit the man, he was thrown off his feet, landing hard on his back two or three metres further behind. 

John stared, stock-still for several long moments, really not sure what had just happened, until Mary grabbed his arm. Her eyes were wide when he looked at her, but she didn’t seem angry or afraid. 

“Let’s go.” She pulled on his arm for emphasis. 

John looked back at the man lying on the ground, beginning to stir, in the alley behind them, still entirely unsure of what to think, before turning and setting off behind Mary again.


	8. No Platitudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John didn't answer his mobile, Sherlock felt the true beginnings of panic unfurl in his chest.

When John didn’t answer his mobile, Sherlock felt the true beginnings of panic unfurl in his chest. Ignoring Mycroft’s serious expression and Yi’s confused one, the consulting detective ran from the room. If Mycroft made some form of protest, it fell upon deaf ears. Thinking of what Mitchell had said, Sherlock grabbed his freshly dry-cleaned coat and bee-lined for Mycroft’s garage, grabbing a set of car keys hanging on the wall. 

By the time Sherlock was starting one of his brother’s many black sports cars, he had John’s location beeping away on his mobile (John wasn’t aware that his newest mobile had a built-in tracking chip that Sherlock had access to). By the time Sherlock was speeding out of the front gates, he was cursing himself a hundred types of idiot. For the past twenty eight hours, thinking he alone was under fire, he had put himself under voluntary house arrest and had broken contact with nearly all friends and acquaintances. He’d hidden away, thinking that if Mitchell was focused on finding him, then everyone else – John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade – would be overlooked. Yet he had missed the (obvious!) CIA connection between Mitchell and Mary (there was always one damn thing) and had inadvertently put them at risk (unforgivably stupid).

Sherlock pressed on the accelerator, uncaring of the risk of speeding tickets. His brother would wave them or pay them, it didn’t matter. What mattered was heading off John before he got to the tube station, which, based on the travelling red light on his mobile’s GPS, was clearly his final destination. He, with Mary most likely with him, was running from something, so not much point in trying to ring him again, he wouldn’t answer.

The Mary/Mitchell connection: First clue: both Mary and Steven Mitchell were ex-CIA. Second clue: Steven Mitchell had the same initials as Sebastian Moran. (Data: last autumn, during the months that John had taken shelter away from Mary to nurse his wounds, Sherlock had succumbed to his curiosity (and, perhaps, the tiny persistent _concern_ for his friend) and had, secretly, gone through every last file on that shameful little flashdrive. Amongst the official missions and even some of the free-lance work, Mary, officially Amy Georgia Rae Arlington at the time, had been occasionally assisted by an Agent Sebastian Moran. The reasons were unclear, but Amy had been the driving force behind Moran’s eventual expulsion from the agency. Moran would have a clear motive for ruining Mary’s life. The fact that Moran’s dental tracking device had been found in the skull of a corpse in a house fire in 2007 was no excuse for missing the connection. Deaths were not impossible to fake, as Sherlock well knew.) Third clue: Mitchell returned for revenge on Sherlock and within forty eight hours attacks upon Mary and John began. Not a coincidence – there was no such thing. 

A car honked as Sherlock sped through a red light. Sherlock swerved around a Fiat going five under the speed limit and turned a corner sharply. Nearly there, down this street and he would be upon them… Yes, there! Mary and John were approaching, moving as quickly as Mary was able and looking _exhausted (Mary) (they’ve traveled several blocks), in pain (John) (back slightly hunched: minor dorsal injuries), focused, mildly panicked (still being pursued)_. Pulling to the side of the narrow street, he slammed the brakes and threw open the passenger door for Mary. Recognizing the black vehicle, the couple headed straight for it, and Sherlock watched Mary climb awkwardly in before John threw himself in behind her, cursing with a grimace when his back hit the seat. He froze when he saw his friend in the driver’s seat.

“Sherlock?” he exclaimed, incredulous. “Car’s a little above your pay grade, isn’t it?”

“Seatbelts,” Sherlock ordered, ignoring John’s quip, and sped off again, shifting gears smoothly as he accelerated.

“What the hell is going on? How did you even find us?”

Sherlock made a sharp left. “CCTV,” he lied, slipping his phone from the drink holder into his pocket. He could see Mary raising her eyebrows at him in his peripheral vision, but as she said nothing, he ignored her. Actually, this close to her, a drop of red (unexpected) caught his attention – he flicked his eyes in her direction – the smallest spot of blood on her chest, nearly obscured by the neckline of her shirt. Had she --

“Bloody hell, you’re turning into Mycroft.” 

Sherlock grimaced in horror at the thought. “Never,” he replied indignantly. 

Their pursuer was still alive (they’d been running when he’d found them), but had they fought before running? Drop of blood, type of splatter still unclear…oh, but origin of blood would have been several metres away – not stabbing then, not enough blood for that. Who had she shot? 

“You can slow down, Sherlock. We’ve definitely lost him by now,” Mary told him, leaning back in the seat and trying to calm her still-rapid breathing.

“Are you certain?” Sherlock trusted Mary’s instincts almost as much as his own. Additionally, Sherlock could not spot any pursuers in the rear-view mirror. 

She nodded. Sherlock eased up on the gas, letting the car slow to a more legal speed as they passed Mycroft’s favourite bakery (important ammunition for insults). _(Pursuer was still alive, so blood was from a previous fight – source of Mitchell’s taunts – where John had been injured, reason for the ambulance)_.

“Who was after us, anyway?” John asked from the back seat.

“Sebastian Moran,” Mary replied flatly.

So, Mitchell (no, Moran) was still alive.

“Sorry, who?” 

Sherlock remained silent. Mary’s lie-detecting ability was both a nuisance and irritating in the extreme – he still had no idea what tell she picked up on – and Sherlock was none too keen on revealing his knowledge of Amy’s life (John would be livid, Mary…he wasn’t sure, but surely she’d resolve to never leave John alone with him again to avoid him sharing her secrets – dull). Consequently, he resolved to remain silent when risky topics came up. 

“An agent I used to work with,” Mary admitted. “There’s some…bad blood between us.”

“Clearly,” John snorted and Mary flinched a bit.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“To the safest, most secure location in London and the place I’ve been confined to for the past week – my brother’s house.” 

“Actually, strictly enforced silence is not really my cup of tea, to be honest,” John deadpanned. 

Baffling. “What?”

“Mycroft doesn’t live at the Diogenes Club?” he asked innocently.

“Hilarious,” Mary informed him, rolling her eyes, but she smirked slightly.

“And whatever happened to that sniper, anyway?” John wondered.

Damn, risky topic. Sherlock shouldn’t have known that Moran and the sniper were the same person. “Unclear at the moment,” Sherlock hedged, and it wasn’t untrue – Sherlock could only guestimate that Mitchell/Moran was some distance away from where he’d picked up Mary and John.

At last, they reached Mycroft’s home and, pulling into the long drive, the immense, gaudy wrought-iron gates slid open for them. John gave a low whistle of appreciation. The house was impressive, Sherlock supposed, if looked at from a detached point of view. From the outside, the size of the house was misleading, appearing, while grand, still smaller than the actual dimensions. A mixture of red and dark gray brick, intricate wrought iron adorning the entranceway (if entered by the front door, one would be greeted by two medieval armours), large windows tapering to pointed arches at the top and even the high, Romanesque-style roof gave off a distinctly gothic feel. A gravel walkway led from the gates to the house and around, leading to a garden in the back and shrubs and cedars provided more privacy from the already distant neighbours. When Sherlock considered it, however, words like depressing, imposing and indecorous were more likely to come to mind than stunning or opulent, but, knowing the inhabitant, he supposed he was rather biased. 

Sherlock drove into the underground garage and parked the car. When he turned off the engine, Mary spoke up.

“We need to plan.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He made to exit the vehicle, but hesitated. “But before we go in, you have something just here.” Sherlock indicated his own left clavicle.

Tucking in her chin to see, Mary quickly spotted the dried blood and licked her thumb to wipe it off. “Thanks.” She smiled at him, as if he had just informed her of an embarrassing smudge of chocolate on her face.

Sherlock nodded and exited the vehicle. The slamming of doors echoed in the large garage, their steps echoing in counterpoint. Opening the door to the house, Sherlock was entirely unsurprised to be greeted by a stern-looking Mycroft.

***

Mycroft was, as usual, unimpressed with his brother’s antics. Mycroft could have had an entire recovery team sent out to the aid of Dr. and Mrs. Watson with a single phone call, but no, Sherlock had had to dash off on his own, taking one of Mycroft’s cars no less. Honestly, the recklessness was infuriating.

When Sherlock walked through the garage door into the house, followed by the weary-looking couple, he looked decidedly unintimidated by Mycroft’s presence. Sometimes Mycroft missed the days when Sherlock could still be cowed by a fierce look.

“Thanks for the ride, brother dear.” Sherlock threw the key at him, not bothering to hide his smirk at Mycroft’s shocked expression and fumbling. Sherlock swept past and on into the house, heading for the nearest sitting room.

“John, Mary,” Mycroft greeted, noticing a sallowness in Mary’s cheeks and new lines in the doctor’s face. Something had happened in the past two days, he realized, something more than the attacks. This couple thrived in action, so the obvious signs of stress were caused by something else. “Please do come in. It seems we have some debriefing to do.”

Sherlock had already thrown himself into a gold trimmed, black couch so he could watch as Mycroft followed John and Mary into the sitting room. The couple entered together, not holding each other, but close enough that their hands and arms could brush. Mycroft watched as Mary sat on the loveseat across from Sherlock, carefully holding her pregnant belly, and John hovered over her until she was seated. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in thought; parental instincts or something else? Sherlock was oblivious, an impatient look on his face as Mycroft took an armchair by the fireplace. Mycroft sent a quick text to his assistant as he settled.

It remained silent as it seemed no one knew how to begin. Sherlock, strangely taciturn, was regarding John and Mary with a slight crease of confusion between his eyebrows and the couple appeared... exhausted. The drooping eyelids and sluggishness of fatigue, the slightly pinched lips and crinkles around the eyes of headache and the tension of sore muscles all led to one conclusion… grief. Mycroft’s eyes widened fractionally in sudden realization. They’d lost the baby, hadn’t they. Oh, dear, and Sherlock had no idea. Mycroft glanced at his brother, unable to stop the flood of pity and as Sherlock made eye contact with him, his confusion seemed to grow. Taking a breath, Mycroft decided to start things off, hopeful to avoid the sensitive subject for as long as possible.

“Mary, John. Your first attacker of this morning has been identified as Russian drug lord Dmitri Lapteva. Evidently, assuming neither of you have recently gotten involved in the more sordid side of medicine, this man was someone from Mary’s CIA past.” Mary met his gaze steadily. “We are still waiting upon the identity of your second attacker, but it is clear that Mary’s identity has been compromised. You are no longer safe.”

Mary looked away and John grabbed her hand. Sherlock scowled at his brother. 

“That’s not a certainty, Mycroft. It’s possible those two were the only ones aware – ”

Mary shook her head. “If there was even a single rumor of my identity, then I am now a target. ‘Mary Watson’ is now a target and I’ve made you a target, too.” She looked at John, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I never wanted this to happen. If I run, maybe they’ll follow my trail and – ”

“Stop,” John ordered lowly. “You’re not going anywhere alone, I told you.”

Just then, Andrea appeared holding two glasses of water. Oddly, she paused in the doorway. Frowning slightly, Mycroft nodded at her, giving her clear permission to enter. She appeared to be staring rather intensely at the couple, which was also odd behaviour. At Mycroft’s nod, she seemed to snap out of it and she promptly handed the glasses to the couple. She wiped her hands on a towelette over her arm to remove the moisture from condensation. On her way out, she discreetly murmured to Mycroft: “Mitchell was found dead by a poison dart on Daventry Street and the shot of the second attack turned out to be a rescue. A sniper named Julia Lisbon was found dead atop the house across from Dr. Watson’s. The bullet matches Mitchell’s gun.”

How _interesting_. “Thank you, Andrea,” he murmured and she left. 

“Andrea? Her name’s actually _Andrea_?” John was muttering. Mary shushed him.

For now Mycroft would disregard Andrea’s odd behaviour. Of a higher priority: If Mitchell had been the one pursuing the Watsons, and clearly he had been considering where his body had been found, then that meant – 

“It can’t be a coincidence that someone connected to Moriarty turns up a day before Mary sees someone from her past.” John was saying then.

“I don’t even know if I saw correctly. Moran was declared dead in a house fire years ago.” Mary seemed unsure.

“Well, interesting that you should think so,” Mycroft interrupted. “Because it appears that your sniper,” he looked pointedly at Sherlock, whose expression was carefully bland, “was found dead only a block from your home.” He looked at the Watsons. John gave an odd flinch. “It is curious that the pursuer you thought was Moran turned out to be Moriarty’s Steven Mitchell.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in put-on surprise as Mary and John glanced at him.

“I’ve also been informed that the shot you heard originated from Mitchell’s gun and, in fact, killed yet another sniper by the name of Julia Lisbon, whose sights were undoubtedly aimed on you, Mrs. Watson. It seems Mitchell became your unlikely protector just before someone else got to him. He was poisoned, apparently.”

“Alright. What is going on?” John demanded, voice forcefully level as he attempted to remain calm despite his confusion.

“Well, obviously, your Moran and my Mitchell are, or were, rather, one and the same,” Sherlock rumbled, hands steepled against his lips. “When Mitchell came in pursuit of me, he happened to come across Mary, recognized her from his CIA past and must have revealed your identity. I’m sorry I didn’t catch it before. I should have realized that, with his CIA past, Mitchell could potentially have a connection to you.” His words were directed at Mary, but he didn’t look at her, gaze leveled above her head as if in thought. Mycroft knew better, and so did Mary apparently.

“You knew,” she declared, looking at the detective with a calm expression.

Sherlock glanced back at her with a frown. “Sorry, what? I just told you I wish I’d caught it earlier, of course I didn’t know.”

“You can’t lie to me, Sherlock, you know you can’t.” She smirked sardonically, as if congratulating a friend on a prank well played. “You knew about Sebastian Moran, even if you didn’t make the connection right away, didn’t you?”

Sherlock said nothing and his expression didn’t change, but there was the slightest spasm in his throat, like a restrained hiccough.

“You read the bloody flashdrive, didn’t you?” she continued.

“What?” John exclaimed, eyebrows raised in incredulity and anger.

Sherlock grimaced slightly. “Alright, yes. But I assumed, based on the given information, that Moran was dead, so I didn’t even think to connect him with Mitchell, though their matching initials are rather obvious…”

“You read the flashdrive? The one that I kept hidden in my room, with the express desire that _no one_ know its location and that I eventually _burned_ so that no one would find that information?” John clenched his jaw, breathing hard. “Why could you not respect my decision, Sherlock? I mean, I knew you could find it if you wanted to, but I, foolishly apparently, thought that you would leave it be, because it was obviously something I was struggling with and – ”

Sherlock appeared slightly cowed, and while Mycroft thought John’s reaction was a bit unfair, he had to admire the effect his anger had on his brother. He was a little jealous, actually.

“Oh, John, you know he was just worried about you,” Mary interrupted, putting a restraining hand on her husband’s forearm.

“ _Worried?_ ” He gave a scoffing laugh. “It’s an invasion of privacy is what that was. And I will put up with a lot of crap, but the fact that you couldn’t respect my decision-”

“Well it was really my privacy that he was invading and you don’t see me having a fit about it,” Mary said tersely, again trying to diffuse the situation. Mycroft could see why Sherlock liked her.

Sherlock looked confused as to why Mary was defending him. “It’s done now. But running doesn’t have to be the only option. I’m sure I can find out who knows – ”

“No,” Mary disagreed firmly. “Sebastian hated me in the end. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t kill me right off when he found me.” John flinched at that, distracted from his anger. “I killed Lapteva’s daughter and Lisbon’s husband and I have no idea why Seb would have protected me from her. Maybe he’d decided he wanted me for himself after all,” she continued coldly. “And, clearly, someone’s still out there that knows about me, because Seb had enemies, too, and his caught up to him. I’m not safe here, and by staying I endanger all of you, so I – ” John gently squeezed his hand around hers and she corrected herself. “ _We_ need to leave. Start over.” 

Looking a little lost, Sherlock opened and closed his mouth but said nothing. He hid it well, but Mycroft could see the uncertainty and the fear in the lines around his brother’s eyes and the tenseness of his lips. Right now, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was seeing both John and Mary ripped from his life and was thinking desperately of a way to fix it, to keep his best friend close, and was coming up with nothing. Taking pity on his younger sibling, Mycroft spoke up.

“Perhaps I could ask Lockland to prepare some passports?” He suggested delicately. “And I’m sure Yi could be convinced to help with the technological side of things.”

Sherlock glanced at him and away, some relief evident in his eyes. He focused his attention on John then, who was still looking at the consulting detective rather stonily. “Yes, Mycroft has quite recently bullied a young hacker into joining his forces. Despite his terrible penchant for whinging and his general lack of hygiene, the boy is quite talented with the more disreputable side of computer sciences and I’m positive he could make up three new identities – ” 

Confusion rumpled John’s brow. “Three?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Well the baby won’t really be an issue as you can give her whatever name you want –”

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes. Oh, Sherlock.

“And it only makes sense for me to come with you…”

Sherlock trailed off as John, who had gone terribly pale, squeezed Mary’s hand, got up, and, with a military rigidity, left the room. Sherlock, misunderstanding, covered his hurt with bluster.

“Fine! I don’t have to come, but I don’t see how you can expect me to help if you don’t want –”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose but Mary just gave Sherlock a watery smile.

“It’s not that, Sherlock,” she told him softly. Her wavering voice removed all the life from Sherlock’s tirade. He stared at her mutely. “We didn’t get a chance to tell you before…” She paused, collecting herself. “She’s gone, Sherlock.” Her voice broke. She looked at Mycroft and quickly back to Sherlock. She bit her lip and her voice was thick with tears. “Sorry, we didn’t want to tell you like that.”

For the second time in ten minutes Sherlock had been shocked into silence. He, too, had gone terribly pale and his eyes, staring at Mary’s hands on her belly, had glazed over, blank. Mycroft knew his brother was desperately hiding behind his shields, denying his feelings and entirely out of his element. Mycroft’s stomach clenched in sympathy that only his baby brother could incite. 

Mary, controlling herself admirably, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and followed after her husband.

Once she’d gone, Sherlock stayed immobile for several minutes, expression blank. Mycroft watched him carefully, waiting for his reaction, so that when Sherlock made a choked groan in the back of his throat and bowed his head to bury his hands in his curls, Mycroft was by his side in an instant, pulling his head against his stomach and feeling the minute tremors where Mycroft’s other hand rested on the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Mycroft didn’t offer any platitudes, simply held his brother in a rare display of affection while Sherlock came to terms with the new information he’d received. Sentiment always took longer to process. 

The couple could be heard from the kitchen, angry mutterings suddenly increasing when John spoke clearly: “If it hadn’t been for this case!” Quickly he quietened again, only mutterings discernable. Mycroft gave his brother a gentle squeeze, wishing he could cover Sherlock’s ears like he had when the world became too overwhelming, too terrible a place for a five-year-old boy with a mind too sharp for his own good. Mycroft had never had anyone to do the same for him.

When at last Sherlock raised his head, red-eyed but dry-faced, Mycroft nodded once, in understanding, in approval, in support, and withdrew. Silently, the government official got up and set out to show the couple, who had just inadvertently broken his little brother’s heart, where they would be sleeping.


	9. Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary explained and Sherlock drowned.

When Andrea had walked into the room where her boss, his brother, and Dr. and Mrs. Watson had been discussing, the strangest thing had happened. She wasn’t even sure if she could describe it to herself. She’d looked at Mr. Holmes the younger first, as he’d been seated nearly opposite the doorway, and had got the strangest impression of a _wall_. She’d looked at him and had gotten the sudden and unprovoked feeling that she was being ignored or _snubbed, closed off, blocked_. It was the strangest thing, as he hadn’t even said anything yet. Next, she’d looked at Dr. Watson, whom one of the glasses of water in her hands was destined to, and had gotten a feeling of _safety, protection_ and _strength_ , which was even odder as she didn’t really know the man well at all, and looking at him critically, he didn’t appear to be all that muscular or strong. Finally, she’d glanced at Mrs. Watson, whom she’d only briefly met once before, and the sense that this woman was _wise, apprehensive_ and _knowledgeable_ beyond what was realistic, suddenly filled her. Andrea had felt like she was seeing their souls.

Mr. Holmes the elder had nodded at her then, getting her attention, and when she’d looked at him, she’d felt…nothing. Well, not nothing, she’d gotten the impression that he was her boss, that he was familiar, the usual thoughts when she’d look at him, but she hadn’t gotten any additional intuition. Not even a wall like the younger Holmes, simply nothing, blank, as if there had been nothing to read. She’d then realized she’d been standing dumbly in the doorway and quickly delivered the water and the information before exiting. 

Having no idea what to make of it, Andrea shook her head and returned her attention to her BlackBerry and the twenty-ninth of the hundred seventeen emails she had to respond to today.

***

“It happened during the storm,” Mary murmured, watching Sherlock stiffen from where he was lying on his four-poster bed, staring at the ceiling, hands on his chest like a Victorian vampire. With his dark hair pooled around his head and contrasting against his alabaster pale skin, and the moonlight throwing his sharp cheekbones into relief, the image was only accentuated.

She’d had another vision. She didn’t want to call it a nightmare, because nightmares were made up, fantasy horrors, created by an active imagination. These visions that she saw were much too real to be mistaken for that and with the increasing evidence of the last two, she was certain that this one would come to fruition as well. It was only a matter of time.

It was fortunate that Mary didn’t thrash about during nightmares, or she and John would never get a full night’s rest – John, with his recollections of both the war and, Mary was convinced, Sherlock’s death, did enough flailing for the both of them during the night. At least John didn’t suffocate her by clinging like Sebastian had. How odd, to think of her past (and brief) lover to be dead. Considering their past profession, the possibility had never been too far from their thoughts, but after all the fear and regrets that had built up between them, she felt relatively little faced with his death. Granted, he had been assumed dead eight years ago, but Mary had never felt completely assured by that – easy enough to pull out your location tracking molar (she knew, she’d had to do it when she’d run) and plant it in the skull of a man of similar height and weight, put the corpse in your most recent hideout and burn the place to the ground… And now she knew that’s exactly what he had done. All those years he’d likely been in cahoots with Moriarty while she’d been on the run as well. No matter, he was gone now. She’d have to ask Sherlock to check the corpse for the missing molar, just to be certain.

“My…my daughter,” Mary clarified. “I was trying to get to a building, after the – the hail started, and I – the path was blocked, so some guy helped me onto the hood of a car so I could get over and… I don’t know what happened exactly, but I think I was hit by lightning.” She glanced at the stony profile of her husband’s best friend. “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s the only explanation I can come up with,” she continued, mostly to herself, thinking of her newfound ability. “Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, right, Sherlock?”

The consulting detective flinched at that, just the slightest tightening around the eyes, but enough to notice. She couldn’t tell if he was surprised, pleased or angry that John had shared that little bit of his friend with her, his motto ( _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth_ ). Sherlock moved then, sitting up and scooting back to rest his back against the headboard, pulling in his knees to wrap his arms around them. Mary took it as an invitation and approached to sit on the edge of the bed near the footboard, not close enough to touch, but there nonetheless. 

“I don’t do sentiment,” came the quiet rumble. 

Mary shot him a dirty look. “Do you see me crying on your shoulder? I’m giving you the explanation you deserve, so shut up.”

His eyes widened slightly and the corner of his lip twitched in amusement, but he sobered again almost immediately, resting his chin on his knees to watch her as she continued.

“So, I fell off the car, of course. I don’t know if it was the stress, the impact or the lightning itself, but something – ” she cleared her throat thickly, “something was too much, I suppose. And I didn’t realize it right away. The man was freaking out, trying to help me – I think he’d been hit too. We got inside and it wasn’t until the storm stopped that I noticed something felt odd. Wasn’t sure what it was. The same man, very helpful, very kind, and I didn’t even get his name, he insisted I go to hospital, called me an ambulance, and even helped me walk to it when it couldn’t get through the crashed cars. By the time I got to hospital, I realized what felt off – she’d stopped moving.” Mary purposely put her hands on the bed so that she wouldn’t feel that lack of movement so much. “She’s a kicker, this one.” She took a deep breath, swallowed against the lump in her throat, determined not to break down in front of Sherlock. “Was, I mean. And, well, the ultrasound confirmed it – her heart had simply stopped and by the time I’d gotten to hospital it was too late for anything to be done. And I texted John to meet me, and when he got there I couldn’t even tell him, but I was sitting in the maternity ward and he just knew I guess and…” She bit her lip and trailed off in her rambling when she heard an unsteady breath from her right. Looking, she saw Sherlock, face turned towards the window, moonlight making the wetness evident in his eyes, lips pressed tightly together and knuckles white where he gripped his elbows around his knees.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she murmured, scooting over and placing her hand on one of his. A flood of protectiveness flooded through her at seeing this man, usually so stoic, breaking down. “I’m so sorry.” 

He flinched at that, recoiling from her and she let her hand drop.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” he hissed, glaring. “I made a vow to you, to the _three_ of you – ” He cut off, taking a ragged breath and looking away again.

Unsure what approach would be accepted or rejected, Mary shook her head but said nothing. She squeezed his knee once before letting go and giving him some space. Moving to lean back against the footboard, she stretched her legs out in front of her on the bed and scrubbed the moisture from her face before crossing her arms on top of her belly.

After several moments, Sherlock, face dry though voice still rough, spoke up again. “What else did you come here for? You had more to tell me.” A statement, not a question.

After witnessing his reaction to the baby, Mary hesitated to tell him about her dreams. Surely he would scoff at them, but she knew the truth and, suddenly, giving Sherlock a warning seemed cruel. There was nothing he could do to stop it, so why torture him with – 

“Mary, what is it?” he demanded more firmly.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” she blurted, and stopped. It sounded so ridiculous.

“Dreams,” he repeated, purposely without reaction. 

She made a face at him. “It’s going to sound mad, but I can’t tell John and I don’t want to worry him, but someone ought to know for when… Just promise me you’ll hear me out and don’t laugh.”

He stared at her blankly. “I assure you I’m really not in a laughing mood.”

She took a deep breath. “Right.” She nodded. “Right. Okay. The night after the storm, I had this dream, nothing special really, just a conversation between me and John. A decidedly realistic and upsetting conversation, but I figured it was just the – the grief talking, making me have bizarrely realistic dreams.”

Sherlock was watching her with keen eyes. Even if that meant he was dissecting her and deciding what psychosis he thought she had, at least he was distracted, if only momentarily. 

“I thought nothing of it until no less than ten minutes later, John came home and we had the entire conversation, exactly as in the dream, word for word, even down to the actions. I had no idea what to think.”

“Where had John been?” Sherlock asked, eyes strangely sharp for an innocent question.

Mary shrugged. “Out for a walk, I assume. He needs his space sometimes, you know. Not really the point here.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “A coincidence. Or a one-off.” 

What? Oh, the dream. “Not a one-off. Later during the day…or yesterday, I suppose, I had a nap and dreamt of a man breaking into our home and attacking John. I couldn’t find a weapon and I watched as the man stabbed a knife into his throat.” Mary tensed at the memory. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but otherwise did not react. “The man then grabbed me, threatened me using my old name and was about to kill me when I woke up to the same man smashing down our door. This time, I knew what to expect and managed to get my gun and shoot him before he could stab John," she thought nothing of confessing to a murder in front of Sherlock, "but it was a close thing. That was the first attack, of course.”

“Real name,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sorry?”

“You said ‘old name’, but Amy is your real name.”

Mary glared at him. “ _Mary_ is my real name. _Mary Watson_ is who I am now, legally and emotionally. Amy is the name of the past I left behind.”

Sherlock looked rather disbelieving, but didn’t interrupt again, which was something.

“And tonight,” she continued. “I dreamt that I died.”

He shook his head and opened his mouth to protest.

“The other dreams have come true, Sherlock,” she cut him off. “Something happened to me during the storm. It was right after that that the dreams started, and this one will come true, too.”

His brow furrowed. “Mary –” 

“Something happened to John today, too! He’ll deny it, think he was seeing things. He’s much too realistic and stubborn to consider that what he thinks happened was real, but I saw it, as well: When Moran was chasing us, I saw him. When John realized he was pursuing, he did something, without his control, I’m sure, but…”

Sherlock had his lips pressed tightly together in displeasure, but waved his hand for her to continue.

She grimaced at him. “A blue light exploded out of him, like a shield. And when it hit Moran, the man went flying back, as if pushed back by a solid force. That’s likely what distracted him enough to allow his assassin to take a shot.”

Sherlock let go of his knees and rearranged his legs to sit cross-legged on the bed while he dissected her with his eyes. “Mary,” he said at last. “You’re grieving, exhausted – ”

She blinked hard and screwed up her face in frustration – tears would not help her case. “But not delusional. I know what I saw, Sherlock.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what you saw or what you dreamt, but if you believe yourself to be under immediate threat, more so than you already are, you must tell me everything you know so that I can help you. So that you can be protected.”

She shook her head. “That’s the thing. This time, it’s not clear how it happens. All I know for sure is that it ends with John’s face above me… He’s terrified, angry. You’re there, too.” Her eyes flick to the detective’s and away. “John’s yelling my name and then everything goes dark before…cutting off. Ending.” She looks Sherlock dead in the eye then. “I’m sure of it.”

***

After Mary returned to her and John’s bed, leaving Sherlock with a churning mind and racing thoughts, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialled his voice mail inbox. One thing Mary had said, about John having gone for a walk early the morning after the storm, had struck him with a terrible suspicion. He pressed one to open his one unheard voice message, the one he had received at 5:22 the previous morning. With a less than perfectly steady hand, he raised his mobile back to his ear.

“You’re such a berk, Sherlock,” came John’s voice, mumbled from either drink or cold. “Answer your phone. I need to talk to you.” A pause where John seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to pick up. It wasn’t like a home message system, where if he didn’t answer he could still listen to the call and pick up if he wanted to. John could be such an idiot with technology. “Look, I’m not sorry for earlier, you can’t just leave me out of the loop like that.” Earlier? Ah, the beginning of the case. It felt so long ago. “I know you don’t want my help, but you’re an idiot so you need someone to watch your back and...” Another pause, during which Sherlock ignored the twisting in his chest. “Bloody hell, I forgot you broke your phone.” A heavy sigh. It sounded like he was shivering. Had he gone out without a coat? Idiot. Cold then, not drink. “I’ll just walk over to the Diogenes Club and smash a rock through a window, shall I? That’ll get Mycroft’s attention, I reckon, and then he’ll come kidnap me and I can come talk to you.” Sherlock gave a surprised laugh, quickly cut off as John continued. “Look, it’s…it’s about the ba – Mary.” Another shaky breath. “I just…You need to know, ‘cause I know you care and…” Another pause and Sherlock closed his eyes. “Actually, he’d probably just call the cops on me, wouldn’t he?” Who? “Mycroft, I mean.” Ah. “And then I’d have to deal with Lestrade and I’m not really in the mood right now, and I’m pretty sure I’m going into mild hypothermia…” Definitely cold, then. “So I’ll just call a cab, shall I and… don’t get sh—” 

“ _End of message_ ,” came the automated voice. 

Sherlock threw the phone away from him, not bothering to save or delete the message, and watched as it hit the footboard with a dull thud before bouncing on the bed. He bowed his head and pushed his fingers into his hair in agitation. 

He’d promised to be there for them, the three of them, and where had he been? He’d cowered in Mycroft’s home while Mary and John had struggled with their grief and already he’d failed one third of his vow. He’d been doing important research, admittedly, and leaving the house hadn’t really been an option, but this went so for beyond that. He’d purposely cut off contact, not wanting the distraction, hoping to protect them, and in the end he’d hurt them worse than ever. If only he’d been faster, had made the connection sooner, he could have stopped all of this. If only he hadn’t practically forced John to accompany him that day (he knew the man couldn’t resist when Sherlock offered the chance for danger and excitement), then Mary wouldn’t have been outside, she’d have been at home with John, with child, safe, separated from his corrosive influence. 

Sherlock pulled on his hair until the pain brought moisture to his eyes, itching for a cigarette and something stronger, and let the ocean of dark thoughts drown him until sunrise.


	10. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knew it was no one's fault, but Sherlock wasn't so sure.

John woke to Mary pressing soft kisses to his face. He opened his eyes and was disoriented until he remembered that he was in one of Mycroft’s guest rooms. Never thought he’d say that. Think it, whatever. 

“Mmm,” he hummed and closed his eyes again as his wife pressed a kiss to his lips. He weaved a hand through her hair, freshly combed, and accepted these few moments of comfort before the harsh reality of a new day and their lives now could ruin it. Mary’s breath tasted like mint toothpaste – she’d already been up then. His was probably rank with morning breath, but she didn’t seem to mind as she ran her hands over his face, his neck, his hair.

“You should talk to Sherlock,” she murmured against his cheek.

He rubbed her back soothingly and sighed. “Why’s that?”

She pulled back to look at him properly and he pushed himself up until he was mostly sitting.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went to talk to him,” Mary admitted. “I told him about…how it happened.” She shook her head against threatening tears. 

John furrowed his brow.

“He deserved to know, John. And he’s devastated.”

John looked away, uncomfortable. ‘Sherlock’ and ‘devastated’ were not two words that made sense together unless it was because he was making someone else feel that way. “He’s playing a trick, Mary. He’s a good actor,” he said cruelly.

“John. I can tell when he’s lying,” Mary said sincerely. “He’s more than upset and he thinks you practically hate him.”

John sighed, because while he himself was devastated, and, yes, angry, he didn’t hate Sherlock, didn’t think he’d ever be able to hate Sherlock. And none of this was his friend’s fault, truly. 

“I’ll talk to him.”

***

After a quick wash and a change of clothes, John found Sherlock’s room and knocked on the closed door before opening it slightly.

“Can I come in?”

John hated talking about feelings. Sherlock knew it, Mary knew it, his therapist knew it, the whole bloody world knew it because he’d bloody well posted it on his bloody blog which he hadn’t updated since before the whole Magnussen case, and, Jesus, Sherlock had shot a man, in front of an entire SWAT team, to protect John, and Mary, and the baby. _Christ_. And he thought John hated him?

“Sherlock?” There was a rustling sound of sheets moving and John opened the door more to see Sherlock in bed, back to the door and the covers pulled up so only his dark hair, more messy than curly, was visible. 

"I don't know, can you?" was the muttered response.

Such a child, honestly. John sighed and entered the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and hesitantly reached out a hand before dropping it back into his lap and facing back towards the door, not looking at the mound of sulking consulting detective behind him.

“Mary said she talked to you last night,” John began and then stopped, not sure how to continue. He pursed his lips and looked down at his hands, clasped together in his lap. “Look, I know you don’t really understand emotions sometimes, so I’d understand it you want nothing to do with…with this,” John blinked hard, “with us, but –”

There was an explosion of movement in John’s peripheral vision and then Sherlock gripping him by the arm, twisting him around to look at him and John gasped to see the wet eyes, the disheveled hair and trembling lower lip on the pale face. Those things could have been acting, could have been fake, but the bruises under his eyes, the tightness of his skin and the anguish in Sherlock’s pale eyes could not be all pretend, could not be for show.

“John,” the detective said, voice low and slightly cracked, so different from the high timbre he used when acting the distressed witness or friend. “John, I am so sorry and it’s not enough. I know it’s not enough, it’s nothing, but please believe me that I will do anything, anything. And I should have seen it sooner, and I shouldn’t have asked you to come on this case and – or none of this would have happened. And you were going to be parents, John, you were going to be a father and… God, she’s gone and if it weren’t for me…”

Sherlock’s eyes were darting around John’s face, looking desperately for something, and he was blatantly ignoring all grammar and now his voice was going tight with panic and, Christ, John had to stop this. He scooted up onto his knees on the bed and turned until his whole body was facing Sherlock before reaching for his best friend, one hand gripping the nape of his neck, the other grasping a bony shoulder, and John was pulling him in until he could wrap his arms around him, feel the fine tremors wracking the lithe body. Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders, careful to hold the left more gently, and made this horrible sound, a gasping moan deep in his chest, and to John it was worse than a sob because to him it sounded like Sherlock was dying.

“Sherlock.” John had to clear his throat and realized he was crying. For once he couldn’t bring himself to try to choke it back. “It’s not your fault, of course it’s not your fault.” John couldn’t continue, so held his friend for another few minutes until the tremors stopped. “It’s not your job to protect us, though you’ve done everything you can to do just that. There’s nothing to forgive,” John assured him then. He considered making a joke about how this, grasping each other on a bed, was worse than Sherlock ripping his clothes off in a swimming pool, but he couldn’t because this was too much, too real. He’d lost his child before even getting the chance to meet her, this person he’d created with the woman he loved more than his own life, and it was too much to handle. Suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was the one giving or asking for comfort.

At last, as they’d both regained some semblance of control, they separated, only slightly awkwardly, and Sherlock closed his eyes as he said: “You don’t deserve this.”

John looked away, smiling grimly. No one deserved to outlive their child, but saying that wouldn’t help any, so John just breathed, breathed and turned back to face his friend, whose eyes were watching him now. Not deducing, just watching, observing. It was odd.

“You look like shite,” John informed him. Sherlock blinked, surprised. “Go clean up and we’ll go for a walk.”

“What about Mary?”

“Mary’s the one that said to come talk to you.”

Sherlock nodded and began removing himself from the sheets, still wearing his clothes from the other day, shoes included. “You can’t leave the house. With Mary’s identity and location compromised, neither of you can risk being spotted.”

John sighed. “Well, I suppose we’re joining you in house arrest.” Although with Moran dead, Sherlock wasn’t actually under direct threat anymore. “Did you sleep at all?”

Sherlock shook his head and headed for a closet.

“Never mind then, go back to sleep.”

“Can’t, wasn’t asleep in the first place. Too much to think about, need to plan.” Sherlock was grabbing clothes off of hangers.

“You can’t even make a proper sentence, Sherlock. Go back to bed,” John ordered, getting off said bed.

Sherlock shook his head as he toed off his shoes to remove his socks.

“Sherlock,” John said warningly.

“John,” Sherlock replied petulantly.

“God, you are such a child.” 

It didn’t mean anything, it was something he said all the time, due to Sherlock’s incredible ability to act as immaturely as a five-year-old, but this time, Sherlock flinched as if hit. John sighed, regretting his choice of words. 

“Teasing, Sherlock. Go on, get ready and you can regale me of this case you decided to leave me out of. Distract me for a bit.”

Sherlock, fresh clothes over his arm, walked up to him and flicked his eyes over John’s face, expression serious. Probably taking in the new wrinkles and gray hairs, John thought.

“John Watson, you are the single strongest person I know,” Sherlock declared, eyes sincere and slightly awed. With that, he turned and went into the adjoined washroom, shutting the dark oak door behind him and leaving John staring after him in surprise.

***

After a light brunch, Sherlock, John and Mary began to plan. They’d need new identities, passports, records, appearances, clothing, phones, cash (not a problem, Sherlock insisted), back stories, possibly accents if John could manage it (unlikely), addresses and a multitude of other facets of a person’s life. It was still being debated whether or not Sherlock should join them, and if he did, how they would explain it.

“Polyamory,” Mycroft had suggested drily one of the times he’d dropped by to oversee and help with some of the finer details. Mostly for Sherlock to harangue him into providing them with a small fortune. 

At the recommendation, Sherlock had looked considering, John horrified, and Mary amused.

“With me or with John?” had been her response.

What Mary and John didn’t know, was that the business that had Mycroft so busy was in fact research on Mary’s potential enemies. He was attempting to find all the people with reason to harm her, with hopes of being able to convince them it would be in their best interests not to. By midafternoon, it was clear that the list of names was depressingly and unmanageably long.

***

That night, after Sherlock had acquiesced to finally getting some sleep, John and Mary settled down into their own bed. The room was really quite extravagant, with a bed that felt like clouds, far more pillows than anyone could ever need, an attached loo with a whirlpool and two sinks, and walk-in closet bigger than their room at home, and everything in a rich, deep mahogany. Mary was attempting some semblance of soothing normality by reading a book that she’d found in Mycroft’s library and John was on his back, staring at the canopy above them. Mary, after realizing she lacked the focus to do more than simply look at the letters on the page without understanding them, closed the book, put it on the bedside table, turned off the lamp, and burrowed under the covers to face her husband.

“What’s wrong?”

John stayed silent for several moments. “It’s the third night, and you’ve not gone into labour naturally,” he said quietly.

Mary curled in around herself defensively. “Yes, I know. Can’t exactly walk into a hospital, though.”

“I’m sure Mycroft can get us somewhere safe and secure. He probably already has everything booked and ready for us.”

Mary nodded. “Alright. Tomorrow then.”

John nodded, still looking at the canopy above them.

“I want to meet her,” Mary admitted, ignoring the increasing dampness of her pillow under her cheekbone.

John closed his eyes and said nothing.

***

That night Mary dreamed that she died hemorrhaging out onto pavement and that in her last few moments it began to rain, so she couldn’t discern her tears from John’s or the sky’s. 


	11. What Could Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was glad that John and Mary hadn't invited him to the birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains in-depth description of coping with stillbirth.

John and Mary did not invite Sherlock to the birth, for which he was inordinately grateful as he didn’t know what the appropriate response would have been. (Would they be offended if he said no? Would they be disappointed if he agreed? So, no, he was glad they hadn’t asked.) But for the rest of the day he had to force himself to stop thinking about it. About whether she would have John’s ears, or Mary’s nose, or John’s deep blue eyes, or Mary’s wavy hair. He couldn’t stop wondering and then reminding himself that it didn’t matter _doesn’t make a difference_ because the baby had gone before even having arrived. So much potential, snuffed out before taking her first breath. It was infuriating, maddening, crushing and this was why Sherlock didn’t do sentiment. He couldn’t bear it, this unfair, cruel twist of fate (that Sherlock didn’t even believe in), that had occurred to his friends, to John, who was good, and brave, and stronger beyond belief and who did not deserve this. Sherlock had already put him through hell with his own ‘death’ and now this… 

So Sherlock focused on their escape plan, which Mary would be a part of whether she wanted to believe it or not, and on insulting Mycroft’s new hacker every ten minutes as a distraction. Truly, Brayden Yi wasn’t half bad, and at the rate that they were going, they’d have all the necessary documents within two to three days.

The boy was wearing a blue silk shirt with a red and yellow ‘S’ logo on the chest today. When Sherlock asked if the ‘S’ on Brayden’s shirt stood for ‘stupid’, Brayden gaped at him and said: “Only if you don’t know who Superman is.” Which was entirely inaccurate because Sherlock wasn’t familiar with the pop culture reference despite being a genius.

***

Their daughter was tiny. When she was born she was slimy, and red, and tiny, and silent. So silent. Only Mary’s panting breaths and John’s convulsive swallowing and the nurse’s soothing voice filled the space where a baby’s first wail should have been. Wrapped in a blanket, Mary held her miniature, still body, weighing no more than a few pounds, and John stroked her downy, blond hair, unconcerned about the bodily fluids that dampened it. Their eyes raked over the snub nose, the pouty lips, the ears that stuck out just the slightest bit, and wept at what could have been.

***

When Mycroft informed Sherlock that she had been born, Sherlock wished that he could see her just so he could stop his mind from speculating. He then locked himself in his room and smoked what was left of a pack of Mycroft’s secret cigarette stash – low tar, horrid – in a bid to calm down because even amidst death and grief his mind would not stop running circles.

***

Mary jolted awake to the memory of hands gripping her throat.

Lying on the very comfortable cot of her private room in the small, well-supplied, secure and no doubt disgustingly expensive hospital, she lay on her back so as not to disturb the monitor wires. She felt the lack of weight on her stomach and her ability to breathe without restriction and thought of how, against her control, she would be leaving John. Leaving him behind, leaving him…well, not alone, he would always have Sherlock. But she’d be leaving him widowed and childless and the thought had a sob catching in her throat. John, who had been dozing next to her on another cot, was awake and at her side in an instant. Misunderstanding the cause but not the emotion, John enveloped her in his arms, squeezing her with such empathy, such care that she couldn’t stop herself from breaking down then.

“Mary, Mary,” he murmured, his own voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Mary. Love, I’m so sorry.”

No, she was sorry. She was the one that should be apologizing. She shook her head against his neck. “There’s no time for this. We need to prepare. There’s no time.” I need to prepare to leave you, prepare you for when I’m gone.

He kissed her hair. “There’s all the time you need. We’ll make it.”

***

In between a meeting with the prime minister and a scheduled video call with the head of foreign affairs, Mycroft checked the increasing rate of criminal presence around the Watson residence with CCTV footage and figured they had less than a week before transportation for Mary became excessively dangerous. Even with their home cordoned off with police tape and surveyed by constables, known spies and criminals were making nearly hourly appearances on CCTV footage. Clearly, her choice to start a new life six years ago had been for legitimate reasons.

***

Mary and John registered their baby as Sophie Amelia Watson. They dressed her, took pictures, got her hand- and footprints, saved a small lock of soft hair, and received a Medical Certificate of Stillbirth. They made memories and loved her and at the end of the day they had her cremated. Her ashes fit in an urn the size of a pear.  
They did not get over it, they did not move on, they did not even feel closure as the doctors weren’t sure what had caused the death. But they had each other, and for a day, it was almost as if they’d had their daughter. They stayed at the hospital for one more night, during which Mary woke from dreams of death with the taste of blood on her tongue, then early the next morning they were driven back to Mycroft’s.

***

When John and Mary entered Mycroft’s home by the garage, Mary was still obviously sore and John held a beautiful wooden box as carefully as he would his child herself. They stood in the doorway, overlooked by archaic silver armours holding swords. The chandelier above them cast a warm yellow glow, giving the couple a healthy glow despite their obvious weariness. Mary hugged Sherlock, which he returned less automatically and more with actual care. She still had the hospital bracelet around her wrist. John did not look at him.

It was hateful, but they were running out of time. Optimistically, they had three days left of relative safety in London. Longer than that, and they risked exposure as more trained killers and spies came looking for Mary. Eventually they would find her. So, hateful, but necessary: they needed to get practical, force emotion aside and plan. More in depth preparation. More detailed. Perhaps it would provide a distraction. _No, don’t be stupid. There is no distraction from this. Not this. Hateful, necessary, not distracting_.

John cleared his throat thickly, drawing Sherlock’s attention. John’s eyes were downcast, his lips pursed slightly to hide their trembling. “Would you like to see her?”

Sherlock stared at him, stock-still. What was the proper response? Yes, he wanted to see her. He wanted to collect data, analyse, store the information. Was that wrong?  
“There’s no right or wrong answer, Sherlock,” Mary informed him softly. “Some parents don’t even wish to see their own child after a stillbirth.” 

But they had. Of course they had, they were doctors, they would know what to expect. Sherlock did as well. “Yes,” he whispered, but he stayed frozen. 

John, understanding, opened the lid of the intricately carved wooden box and took out a four by six inch paper. A photo. John closed the distance between them and held out the photo to Sherlock. An offering. Slowly, Sherlock reached for it, eyes flicking to John’s for approval. At his slight nod, Sherlock reverently took the image in his hands and let his eyes roam over it: She was small, so small, maybe three pounds. Her parents were small, it was to be expected, but she was too small. Almost sixteen inches long, perhaps, difficult to tell from her curled position. Evidence of little fingernails and toenails, in the middle of their development. Her eyes were closed, so colour was indecipherable (though that changed after birth anyway), but her short eyelashes were light blond, almost white. As were the wispy strands on her delicate skull. Her nose was snub, small (definitely Mary’s) and her baby lips were plump. Her ears stuck out just enough to be endearing. Her chin was John’s. Her lungs would not be fully developed yet, nor her eyesight, but she would have been able to detect light from inside the womb. Traces of downy Lanugo hair was still visible on her body. She would have been developed enough to taste, to hear, to dream. She had been old enough to have thoughts and respond to external stimulus. Had she been born at this point, she would have survived with medical help. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. He could hear John breathing heavily through his nose, striving for that military control. Mary sniffled wetly close by on Sherlock’s left, so he did not jump when she placed a hand on his back. He was shaking very slightly. Mary had noticed. She squeezed his shoulder once. There was a brief stillness and then John cleared his throat.

“We named her Sophie,” John informed him. “Sophie Amelia.”

Sherlock looked at the picture again and smiled softly. Sophie. Sophie Lyons had been a brilliant American pickpocket and thief born in the mid eighteen hundreds who had also happened to have the pseudonym ‘Mary Watson’. Coincidence, surely. Probably best not to mention it. 

“She got your nose.” Sherlock flicked soft eyes towards Mary.

“Yeah, and my ears,” John added thickly but lightly.

Mary gave a choked laugh and went over to clasp hands with the father of her daughter. 

“She was beautiful,” Sherlock murmured sincerely and extended his hand to return the photograph. Suddenly realizing his phrasing, he grimaced – past tense, not good?

“It’s fine.” John made direct eye contact as he said it, calm and steady so Sherlock believed him. “And you can keep it,” he continued, nodding at the photograph. “We have lots.”

Sherlock hesitated before nodding. He tucked the photograph in his inside jacket pocket, directly (though unintentionally) over his heart.

***

Later that morning, the three of them sat at the end of Mycroft’s long oak dinner table, guarded by two symmetrical silver armours on horseback and doused with the sunlight beaming in through the floor-to-ceiling window in between the horsemen. It was beautiful, yet somehow chilling. With John at Mary’s side and Sherlock across from them, the couple took in the various documents and passports spread out on the table.

“John, you’re new name is James Edward Roth. Easy enough to remember: Hamish is a variant of James, you still don’t like your middle name and we’re giving you a German background as opposed to Scottish. You’ve never met your German relatives,” Sherlock explained.

“Sure. James Roth, perfect,” John muttered. 

“Mary, you are Lydia Mae Roth, née Lavoie. You can speak French, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Also simple enough name: Lydia is a diminutive of Elizabeth and Mae is similar enough to Mary.”

“Do I look like a Lydia?” Mary inquired of John.

“Do I look like a James?” John countered. 

“Not that it’ll matter anyway,” she said offhandedly. None of this would matter – she’d likely be dead before they even left the country.

Sherlock tensed suddenly.

“Why’s that?” John asked, confused.

Sherlock’s face was blank but the line of his shoulders was incredibly tight.

“Oh, just that I’ll hardly ever be calling you that,” Mary explained lightly. “I mean, how often will we be out in public?”

John accepted this. “True.”

Mary glanced at Sherlock again, who still appeared stone-like. “And if something should happen to me, is there a way that John can contact you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” John reassured her.

Mary smiled at him. “You can’t promise that. If I’m gone, there will be no need for you to keep running. You should have a way of contacting Sherlock quickly.”

Sherlock was grinding his teeth in a way that would make a dentist flinch.

“Mary—” John began.

Mary sighed and gave a dry cough. “John, could you grab me a glass of water? My throat feels like sandpaper.” She grimaced as she swallowed. 

“Oh, sure,” John agreed easily. “Be back in a tick.”

“Thanks, love.” Mary smiled at him as he got up and left the room. Sighing, she turned back to face Sherlock’s anger.

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed at her, leaning across the table. “Stop being the martyr and fight back.”

Outraged, Mary spoke with as much vehemence as she could while still keeping her voice down. “I _am_ fighting back, Sherlock! I’m fighting back by trying to protect those I love. How else am I supposed to fight back when I don’t know what to expect or when to expect it?”

Stubborn as ever, Sherlock shook his head. “Surely you must have seen something definitive.”

Mary frowned. “Every night it’s different. It seems an entire armada is after me and everyone keeps changing their minds, because the attacker’s face is never clear, nor their intentions or method. All I know is that it’s someone I’ve hurt in the past and it always ends the same way. Me, dead on the ground.”

“So all this planning is for nought, then?” Sherlock scowled at her, disbelieving. “The chances that these dreams even mean anything –”

“What are you two hissing about?”

Mary and Sherlock jerked upright at the sound of John’s voice, both trying desperately not to look like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. 

“Mary thinks you should grow back the mustache as part of your disguise,” Sherlock declared, quick as ever. "I was just saying what a horrible idea that is.”

Mary fought against rolling her eyes.

“I thought you hated the mustache?” John asked, surprised, as he handed her a perspiring glass of water.

Mary took a slow sip before placing the glass on the table. Deciding a bit of pay-back was in order, she gave John as lascivious a smile as possible, letting her eyelids droop slightly and her tongue wet her lips briefly. “I don’t know, it had certain textural benefits.”

John blinked at her before shuffling his feet, clearing his throat and blushing slightly. Sherlock, with an expression of stoic unresponsiveness, got up, leaving his chair at an angle that he knew would drive Mycroft batty, and left the room. John watched him before giving Mary a confused and slightly aroused look.

She smiled innocently.

***

That night, Mary and John lay together in bed with a photo of Sophie between them and the little urn on Mary’s nightstand table.

“We can’t bring her with us,” John murmured, squeezing his wife’s hand.

“We’ll put her in small pendants to carry always. We’ll leave the rest of her with Sherlock. He would have been so amazing with her.” Mary stroked John’s trembling lower lip as he smiled.

“He would have been a terrible babysitter.”

“He would have taught her so much,” Mary disagreed.

***

The following two days were filled with planning, waiting and stress. With little to focus on, Mary and John both struggled to deal with their loss. Restlessness, irritability and bouts of numbness that left one or the other sitting alone somewhere in the veritable mansion, were near constant companions. Much of the organization, such as transportation, protection, finances and hotel bookings, was Mycroft’s job and therefore out of Mary’s and John’s hands. As part of their new identities, John’s hair was dyed a believable reddish-brown that made him look five years younger and Mary’s was dyed a deep auburn that she was meant to grow out. She’d never liked having long hair, but the new her preferred it apparently. Normally she’d suggest coloured contact lenses and weight change to enhance her disguise, but, well…

Her dreams were getting worse. She had more than one a night now, each ending in her demise. The worst were those that ended with John killed, too, trying to protect her or as a deliberate target. A particularly grisly depiction of John shot in the head had Mary waking in a panic one night and rousing Sherlock from his bed in his room down the hall.

“You have to protect him,” she begged. “Whatever happens, keep him safe.”

Sherlock, wide-eyed and momentarily speechless, eventually murmured lowly: “John Watson despises safety, as you well know.”

Mary bit the inside of her cheek as tears brimmed. 

With a moue of discomfort, the detective pulled Mary to sit on the edge of the bed and patted her back awkwardly. “There, there.” It sounded like a question.

His stiffness was endearing and amusing enough that Mary relaxed a bit.

“They’re just dreams,” Sherlock said, striving for a gentle tone, but still coming off as reproving.

Mary shook her head.

“Why are you not seeking comfort from John?” Sherlock asked accusingly, letting his hand drop and leaving a foot of space between them.

“John is such a practical man, he’d never believe me,” she mumbled. “You,” she continued, sensing the impending argument, “believe evidence. You see the truth.”

“There has been no evidence.”

“Tomorrow morning, over scrambled eggs and blood orange juice, Mycroft will inform you that Moran was missing a lower, left second molar, indicating his clear liaison to the CIA. I dreamt that several nights ago, which is why I never asked you to check for me – I already knew.”

Sherlock stared at her. “That is not legitimate proof.”

Mary sighed. “Just wait and see.”

“You should tell John.”

“What, that his wife is going to die and there’s nothing he can do about it?” she said harshly. “Think I’ll skip that particular conversation, thanks.”

“Then why tell me?” Sherlock exclaimed. 

Mary just smiled at him sadly. “I know you’ll do the right thing,” she told him, not really answering his question. Whether she’d warned him or not, Mary knew Sherlock would do all that he could for John. The truth was that if she kept these visions to herself, with no outlet and no one to share her fear with, she’d go insane. The truth was that she had to tell _someone_ , and she’d rather risk hurting Sherlock than surely hurting John. And wasn’t that just always the case?


	12. Blood Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the last day, but Sherlock wasn't nervous. Not in the least.

The next morning, the last before one of Mycroft’s private planes was due to transport John and Mary to a small town in France, Mycroft joined the couple and his brother at the quaint table in the room attached to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of rich red orange juice, sat in the unoccupied wooden chair and ignored the plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. 

“So, Sherlock,” Mycroft began, before carefully sipping the tart juice. “Tomorrow we’ll be seeing Mr. and Mrs. Roth off. I suppose we’ll be spending an increase of brotherly time together, hm?”

Sherlock did not react except to continue chewing his eggs but John shifted uncomfortably next to Mary. The decision for Sherlock not to accompany them was only logical – it was much easier to explain a couple than two men and a woman – but Mary knew both men were dreading the potentially permanent separation. 

Sherlock swallowed and didn’t even glance up at his brother. “Don’t disgust me. I’m trying to eat,” he muttered.

Mycroft sighed, not even pretending to be wounded by this characteristic display. “I thought you’d like to know that the autopsy on the late Mr. Moran, previously Mitchell, revealed the lack of his lower, left, second molar, where tracking chips are typically implanted on CIA agents. I hope that provides you with some sense of culmination.” Mycroft took another sip of the orange juice, drawing Sherlock’s eye. “The poison that killed him is derived from the venom of the _Oxyuranus microlepidotus_ – an extremely venomous snake from Australia,” Mycroft clarified for Mary and John’s benefit. “Of course, it goes without saying that you will be provided with an antidote.”

John looked at Mary with raised eyebrows and then faced Mycroft. “Right, thanks,” he agreed, sounding surprised. 

Mycroft nodded and left the table, leaving his untouched eggs and half-drunk glass of orange juice behind him. “I believe I’ll have tea and toast in my office, thank you,” he murmured to the kitchen aid on his way out of the room.

Mary gave Sherlock a significant look and then glanced pointedly at the blood red orange juice. Sherlock sat back in his chair, seemingly unsure how to react.

“Seriously? Mary?” John was saying. “You’ve been to Australia?”

Mary sighed regretfully, bringing her attention back to her husband. “Sadly, no. But Moran managed to piss off an Australian, clearly.”

***

They returned to their room early that evening in preparation for the early wake-up call the next day. Sitting on their bed waiting for them, was a small white box with the words _cremation jewelry_ printed on the top. Inside they found two silver chains, two plain, cylindrical pendants, two seals and a funnel. Following the instructions, they used the funnel to carefully fill each tiny pendant with a small amount of ashes from the urn. Sealing them and placing each on its own chain, mother and father both fastened one necklace on the other. Tears streaming down their faces, they faced the large mirror by the closet. Mary placed her hand over the pendant, swinging gently mid-sternum. The chains were long enough to easily hide the pendant under clothing. John tucked the necklace under his night shirt, feeling the cool metal gradually warm as it absorbed his body heat from where it was nestled against his chest. Then, silently, they made their way to bed, John holding Mary to his chest while Mary held the pendant tightly in her fist.

***

John was in a strange in-between state, not quite asleep but not entirely awake. Mary was restless in his arms, twitching and moaning sporadically. Suddenly, she went still and tense before relaxing again and sighing. Carefully, slowly, she wriggled and nudged at John until, still half-asleep, he frowned and turned onto his back, freeing her. Silently, Mary rolled out of bed and padded across the floor to the door. It wasn’t until John felt the lack of heat from her absence that he fully woke. Eyes opening wide to see in the darkness, he was about to ask his wife what she was doing, but then she opened the door slightly and whispered, “Sherlock, what is it?” She didn’t sound surprised. Had she heard the detective out in the hall? What did Sherlock want in the middle of the night? Not that being up at all hours was uncommon for John’s past flatmate, but normally when Sherlock wanted something, he would just barge in and wake John up, not hesitate and pace outside the door. John prepared to get up, expecting that Sherlock wished to speak with him, so he was surprised when instead Mary stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Sherlock was talking to Mary? John could hear his friend’s low rumbling, but his voice was too deep to carry properly, for John to decipher the actual words.

“There’s nothing I can do…” Mary whispered. Her voice was higher pitched, easier to distinguish. More rumbling and then Mary again: “Not believing it won’t change it happening, Sherlock.” What were they talking about? Sherlock was talking again, louder now. Something about not enough data? That sounded typical. “I don’t know how it works.” Mary again. Sherlock again, voice low. He sounded… angry? He was upset? Mary sighed. “Just be there for him. He’s going to need you after… after.” Him? Who him? Mycroft? Him as in John? 

The door was opening again, more light spilling in from the hall. Quickly, John turned so his back was to the door, hiding his face. He forced his muscles to relax and breathed evenly and deeply, feigning sleep. The light disappeared again and Mary’s feet could be heard whispering against the wood floor. She snuggled into bed again and then John felt her lips press against the nape of his neck. John made a quiet humming noise in the back of his throat as he closed his eyes and Mary settled behind him. John had no idea what to make of Mary and Sherlock’s little discussion, but within moments he was asleep again and by morning it was easy to dismiss as a dream.


	13. Let's Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary didn't want to die. Honestly, she was terrified.

The plan was to plant the excuse in Kate’s head and let their neighbour gossip and spread the rumours for them. It had been decided that if Mary and John simply left, the resulting questions would be an unnecessary hassle. And Mary hadn’t wanted her friend and neighbour to worry about what had happened to them. So they were off to see Kate, to explain about the baby and then plant the excuse that they were leaving for a fresh start. Which wasn’t far from the truth, really. They just wouldn’t tell her about the spies and assassins chasing after them. 

Mary and John were in the middle row of the spacious black car. Sherlock was in the backseat next to Agent Anthony Lemming, whose arm had made a speedy recovery, and in the driver seat was another agent. Both agents were dressed casually but strategically to hide their various weapons. Mycroft’s assistant Andrea was sitting in the front passenger seat. Mary and John’s luggage was already in the trunk, so that after the brief brunch meeting with Kate, they could head straight for the plane. 

Sherlock was bouncing his knee with uncharacteristic nervousness and his eyes were darting around the surrounding buildings. Mary wished he would stop – John was going to pick up on it if he kept it up. This morning, Sherlock had been sedate and grave when Mary and John had given him the small urn to watch over, though he’d been obviously shocked that they trusted him with such a meaningful task. However, after their conversation last night, she knew that the man was beginning to have suspicions that Mary’s dreams could just maybe have some truth to them. And now he was freaking out.

Mary didn’t want to die. Honestly, she was terrified. She was grief-stricken and queasy and dizzy and terrified. Her training just made her better at hiding it. And in all her dreams of her own demise, by far the worst were the ones where John perished with her. That could not be allowed to happen. If she had to die, then at least John could go back to living with Sherlock, move on, maybe find another wife someday. John, good, brave, strong John, who had suffered so much grief in his life, was going to suffer more, suffer over her, she knew, but he would live. If it was the last thing she did, it would be to make sure that John lived.

“There are agents watching all over the place,” Lemming reassured them as the car pulled up near the breakfast restaurant they were meeting Kate at. “Just make sure not to sit near a window – no need to make yourselves easy targets for snipers.”

Mary nodded and John muttered a sarcastic “Right.” 

“Right,” he said again. “This’ll be easy. Ready, Mrs. Watson?”

Mary gave him a strained smile and they made their way out of the vehicle. They were about to close the door behind themselves when Sherlock suddenly reached out and gripped John’s arm.

“Just go in, give her your excuse, and get out, alright?” 

Surprised by his intensity, John patted Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. “It’ll be fine, Sherlock. Just a little brunch date. We’ll be out right away.”

Sherlock didn’t look reassured, but he let go of John’s arm and let the door shut. The driver pulled back into traffic to park in a more inconspicuous spot just down the street as Mary and John walked into the restaurant. Sherlock picked out the various MI5 agents situated on the street: the woman sitting on the bench across the street, pretending to text, the man slowly walking his Doberman up and down the street, the homeless man huddled in the alley to the right of the restaurant, the sniper on the second floor of the apartment building across the way and Sherlock knew there was one stationed inside the restaurant as well. It seemed incredibly unlikely that anyone could get past those five decently competent agents in addition to Sherlock and the two other agents in the car with him. Mary’s dreams were surely just that; no need for concern. 

“ _Mr. and Mrs. meeting with neighbour now, over _.” The voice crackled over Lemming’s radio.__

__Lemming brought the device to his mouth and pressed the communication button. “Copy that, over,” he replied._ _

__Sherlock scowled at the inefficient communication. He’d wanted to plant a microphone on Mary, but John had disagreed, claiming they wanted some _privacy_ for their _private_ conversation. Mary had simply shrugged and agreed, damn her. Now Sherlock had no way of knowing what was going on. He scanned the street again, but didn’t notice any suspicious behaviour. Really, they should have done this earlier when there had been less of a threat. Everyone was jumpy now. And Mary and John had already dyed their hair – how were they explaining that? Right, a _fresh start_. Hardly likely. Mary’s hair was passable, but that dull brown for John? Ridiculous. Kate was probably an idiot though, not likely to pick up on that sort of thing. She’d think it was their way of coping…_ _

__Lemming placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee, stopping its bouncing. “They’ll be fine.”_ _

__Sherlock jerked away from the touch. “Yes, says the incompetent agent that got shot on his last mission. Very reassuring.” From the corner of his eye, the hair on Lemming’s hand suddenly appeared coarser and the nails elongated and sharpened to a point. Jerking his attention to study the agent directly, Sherlock saw nothing. Frowning at himself, the detective shook his head, dismissing the vision trick. He hadn’t been getting much sleep lately, less than was usual on a case, even._ _

__John and Mary had been in there eight minutes already. How long did it take to say ‘yes, we’re moving away, goodbye’ and get out? Were they ordering a meal?_ _

__Sherlock watched a girl in her early twenties, sporting ripped jeans, a black hoodie under a thick leather coat, worn winter boots, greasy blond hair with black tips and her hands tucked in her coat pockets, walk up the street and turn left at the intersection. No purse or bag? Why? Not homeless despite her unkempt appearance. Perhaps on her way to a friend’s? His eye then caught on a man with a backpack large enough to conceal any number of weapons. Crowbar, handgun, compact rifle…oh…just books. There was a jogger running past. Who exercised in this weather and so early in the morning? Obviously he had ulterior motives. Though the spandex outfit would make it hard to conceal…well, anything, really. Oh, and there was an actual homeless man in that alley, as well. Taking a piss behind some bins. And a lady with heavy makeup, still in her nightclothes (daytime stripper? No… cosmetics store clerk two blocks over), placing her cat on the balcony of her third-floor flat._ _

__“ _Checking out this homeless guy, over,_ ” came a different voice over the radio. The agent in the alley._ _

__“Oh, he’s no one, don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock muttered._ _

__A man reading the paper at the little café next to the breakfast restaurant: bit suspicious, not many people actually read the paper anymore, most people used their phones. Could be a cover… Oh, he was over forty years old: more likely, then._ _

__“ _Mr. and Mrs. preparing to leave the building, neighbour staying back, over_.” _ _

__Jesus Christ, _finally_. Twelve minutes forty seven seconds. They probably _had_ ordered drinks. _ _

__“Copy that. We’re to their left, over,” Lemming spoke into the handheld transceiver._ _

__“ _Copy that, over and out._ ”_ _

__“Why aren’t we pulling up closer?” Sherlock demanded._ _

__“No parking,” replied the driver._ _

__Sherlock hissed in irritation as he looked at the occupied spots in front of the restaurant. Bloody MI5 and they couldn’t retrieve their subjects because there wasn’t any _parking_. Bloody useless, was what they were. Mary and John emerged then, Mary’s arm wrapped around John’s. As they got closer, Sherlock could see that they were both a little red-eyed, but scanning the area carefully, looking for threats. Suddenly, just as they passed the alleyway, the blond girl in the ripped jeans emerged from the narrow road right behind them. Her hands were out of her pockets now, fingers curled like claws and a determined expression on her face. No sign of the agent who was covering that area._ _

__Sherlock swore violently and launched himself out of the vehicle onto the sidewalk, nearly bowling over a middle-aged woman in a business suit. The agent that had been in the restaurant was exiting as Sherlock shouted and began running towards Mary and John. Surprised, they hesitated for a brief second, looking around for the threat. The girl lunged. Mary tried to jerk out of the way as the girl swiped for her neck, red lines appearing on Mary’s cheek instead. The agent from the restaurant grabbed the girl, but when his hand touched the skin of her wrist, he jerked back as if electrocuted._ _

__Mary was writhing on the ground, John leaning over her when Sherlock reached them._ _

There was a shout of _‘Vas-y!’_ and a black blur shot past them: the Doberman chasing after the girl. She screeched as its jaws locked around her calf. 

__Mary was choking, her face turning a purplish hue as John worked over her desperately. Blood began trickling out of her nose and mouth, mixing with the blood from the deep scratches on her cheek. An empty syringe of the anti-venom Mycroft had given John lay on the pavement where he had discarded it._ _

__Twisting, the girl jabbed her unnaturally strong fingernails into the dog’s neck. It whined, jerked and went still, releasing her from its grip. Sherlock went after her the same time the agent from the alley stumbled out, bleeding from the back of the head, only to hesitate when Andrea screamed: “Stop! She’s poison!”_ _

__John was shouting Mary’s name._ _

__What did Andrea mean? There was the muffled sound of a shot and the girl collapsed to the ground, a tranquilizer dart protruding from her back._ _

__“Mary! Mary, come on, love, breathe for me.” John’s ragged voice came from where he was crouched behind Sherlock. With his words, the sounds of fast-approaching sirens and the surrounding screams of panicking witnesses rushed back into Sherlock’s consciousness. His ears were ringing and his blood was pounding._ _

__“Mary, c’mon!”_ _

__Sherlock whirled to face John, who was kneeling on the pavement and leaning over his wife, shoulders jerking as he pressed repeatedly against her chest. The lurching movement forced the necklace containing Sophie’s ashes to roll out from under Mary’s shirt and pool in the hollow of her throat. The colour was slowly bleeding from Mary’s face, the weeping scratches a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes were open, bloodshot, unfocused and blind, her slightly parted lips coated in blood. Clear signs of asphyxiation and clearly the antivenom John had administered hadn’t worked and CPR was pointless because Mary had predicted this, nothing could be done, she’d seen it and had warned him and still he had failed and his mind would not just stop _stop STOP_. _ _

__Sherlock gasped and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids until he saw spots in the darkness. He could hear the sirens, two streets away, Andrea talking rapidly on her mobile instead of texting for once, striking of running shoe soles hitting pavement, shouts of ‘back up!’ and ‘crime scene!’, John’s grunts of exertion as he forced Mary’s heart to beat its dead blood through her veins, the dichotomy of the young murderess’s breaths from where she lay less than eight metres from Mary’s silence._ _

__Sherlock removed his hands and was momentarily blinded as sunlight hit his dilated pupils. He shuffled forward until he towered over John, whose undivided focus was on the body under his hands._ _

__“Come on. Come on, Mary, breathe, c’mon,” he was muttering between gasping breaths._ _

__“John,” Sherlock murmured._ _

__He was going to break her ribs._ _

__The sirens were on their street now._ _

__“C’mon, Mary. That should have worked, c’mon.” John’s voice broke. He paused briefly in his chest compressions to exhale an unnecessary breath into Mary’s lungs._ _

__Sherlock dropped into a crouch behind John’s left shoulder and bowed his own head, grabbing a fistful of his curly hair. The sirens were painfully strident now, emergency vehicles pulling up around them. Heavy footsteps approached. Sherlock looked up, seeing Lemming, another agent and emergency personnel coming quickly towards them. Lemming grabbed Sherlock by the upper arms and attempted to haul him up._ _

__“Mr. Holmes, you must get to cover.”_ _

__Sherlock struggled against the hold, his attention fixed on John as his friend fought against the agent trying to pull him away from Mary._ _

__“No! Stop! Mary – I have to – she’s my wife – stop!” John was frantic, lashing out wildly as paramedics swooped over Mary’s body._ _

__“John!” Sherlock called, hoping to calm him._ _

__The agent kept John’s hands restrained behind his back to stop him from lashing out, but as John lost sight of his wife he yelled: “Get off!”_ _

__A blue light exploded violently from John’s chest. A supernova, a shockwave, it expanded like a bubble all around John, pushing away everyone that it made contact with. As the wall of energy hit first the agent holding John and then the paramedics working over Mary, they were all thrown back as if hit by a bomb blast. Sherlock tensed as the wall approached him, expecting to be thrown back as well. The detective flinched as the blue wall passed around him, seemingly creating a hole in the fabric precisely to his form. Lemming was not so lucky: as the light went around Sherlock, it struck the agent hard in the chest, forcing him to release his grip on Sherlock as he was pushed back several feet. Sherlock stood there, gasping, taking in the five metre radius around John where only Sherlock was left standing, agents and paramedics lying sprawled and disoriented on the ground._ _

__John stumbled forward and dropped to his knees next to Mary again, but did not continue with resuscitation procedures. He groaned wordlessly as he attempted to wipe the blood from Mary’s face. Around them, the government and emergency workers were looking at John with fear in their eyes. Sherlock had no idea what had just happened, but John was oblivious, clutching his wife’s limp hand to his chest, and Sherlock could not stand it. Carefully, he approached his best friend and crouched next to him so they were at the same level. John was pale and his eyes were wide, traumatized. His breath came in shallow pants and his left fist was shaking where it held Mary’s hand._ _

__“John.” Sherlock swallowed painfully to clear his cracked voice. “John.”_ _

__John didn’t look at him. His eyes were glassy, his body betraying him with shock. Sherlock reached out hesitantly to touch John’s left shoulder, then, thinking better of it, made contact with his upper arm instead. Still John flinched away, but at last he looked at Sherlock. The detective let his hand drop and tried to block out the flashing lights, the shouting, his own emotional response, all the irrelevant data._ _

__“John, will you come with me?” Sherlock tried to make his voice soothing._ _

__John swallowed thickly. “Mary—”_ _

__“Mary will be in good hands. Those paramedics that you…” _repelled, threw away, attacked,_ “The paramedics will take over for you.”_ _

__One of the paramedics was slowly approaching behind John again. Sherlock met his eyes and shook his head once, minutely. The paramedic froze._ _

__“Please, John, let’s go. There’s nothing left to do. Please, will you do this for me?”_ _

__John looked at him sharply, eyes wide, and sucked in a sharp breath. Sherlock cursed himself for using the same words he’d spoken to John before falling off a building all those years ago._ _

__The emergency personnel were approaching again. “John,” Sherlock implored._ _

__John closed his eyes, pressed his lips to Mary’s hand before gently laying it down. “I’ll stay with her,” John disagreed._ _

__Sherlock hesitated, but John appeared calmer now as he backed up and let the paramedics place Mary onto a stretcher. As John followed her body into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock made to follow until a hand on his arm stopped him. Turning, he was met by Andrea, whose eyes were wet with unshed tears._ _

__“I’ll take you to the hospital,” she said, voice only slightly unsteady._ _

__Sherlock looked back towards John, but the ambulance doors were already closing behind him as the emergency vehicle raced away. He nodded in Andrea’s general direction, though his eyes followed the retreating vehicle._ _

__Sherlock met John in the A &E waiting room and was unsurprised to find him alone and slumped in a hard plastic chair. “She’s being taken to the morgue,” he choked out, voice tight. _ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed around the lump in his throat. When he took a breath it was shaky. What did one say to one’s friend when their spouse died? ‘I’m sorry’ was entirely inadequate and ‘I will do anything I can to help you’ seemed…too much. Bad timing, maybe. Lost for words, Sherlock simply placed his hand on John’s right shoulder, which John promptly seized with his left hand. At first, Sherlock worried he had overstepped some boundary and John was about to throw his hand away in disgust. Instead, John simply gripped Sherlock’s wrist and squeezed as though holding onto a lifeline. It hurt, but Sherlock did not dare pull away. He gave John’s shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, causing John to take a sharp breath in response. Sherlock was horrified to hear that it sounded rather a lot like a sob._ _

__“John.”_ _

__John shook his head, keeping it bowed so Sherlock couldn’t see his face. For several moments they stayed there like that, Sherlock gripping John’s shoulder, John gripping Sherlock’s wrist._ _

__“Get a cab,” John croaked at last. “Let’s go home.”_ _

__Sherlock didn’t need to ask where he meant._ _


	14. Be There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The fifth stage is acceptance, Sherlock. But not everyone reaches it. Some find themselves stuck with anger or grief for the rest of their lives.”

Andrea watched the girl that felt like cyanide, like decay and death, kill Mary and an attack dog with her fingernails and repel a man with an accidental touch.

Andrea watched wise, apprehensive Mary Watson die without surprise.

Andrea watched protective, safe John Watson force back everyone he viewed as a threat.

Andrea watched stoic, walled-off Sherlock Holmes stand unaffected against John’s assault. 

_Oh, my God._

In the sitting room, during that first meeting in Mycroft’s home, she’d felt like she was seeing their souls. Now she realized she’d seen so much more. She’d sensed their abilities.

_Oh, my God,_ she thought again. And she understood.

_What is happening to me?_

***

Sherlock was pacing, thinking and listening for movement from the upstairs bedroom where John had secluded himself the moment they’d gotten home several hours before. Two mugs of tea, one intended for John and one that Sherlock could not bring himself to taste, sat untouched on the kitchen counter, grown cold in their neglect. Sherlock turned around in his pacing, ignoring his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and considered the fragility of humans and the absurdity of grief: According to the famous Kübler-Ross, there were five stages, easily defined and inescapable (for ordinary people, that was). First was denial: the mind’s way of coping. An idiotic way of prolonging the inevitable. Sherlock did not feel denial. Mary was dead. He knew she was dead. He had been forewarned, yes, but he had not truly believed it. Now he did. Was John in denial? Possibly. Definitely he was isolating himself. Second was anger: Was Sherlock angry? He contemplated the girl with the dyed hair and ripped jeans and noted his headache from constantly clenching his jaw and the way his hands shook minutely. So… yes, he was furious. But his anger was justified. She had killed someone he considered dear, she deserved his anger. The real question was whether he was angry at Mary, for leaving a hole in John’s (and therefor Sherlock’s) life, at Mycroft for being useless, at the agents for not saving her, at John for not seeing the danger in time… Logically, he knew these people did not deserve his ire, but emotionally… Third was bargaining: Sherlock had no proof of a higher power nor of any life after this one. He did not find himself begging an unseen god, but the ‘what if’ questions – those he would never escape. Over-analyzing was inescapable with an over-active brain. What if Sherlock had stopped the girl sooner, had realized the danger at the first sight? What if Mary and John had stayed in the restaurant longer? What if that idiotic agent hadn’t gone to interrogate the homeless man? It would make a lesser man go mad, but considering and evaluating different outcomes was unavoidable (not necessarily a sign of grief). Fourth was depression: Sherlock did not do depression. Sherlock had black moods and irritability, nicotine cravings and stronger itches, he had silences and rages, but depression…?

The door downstairs door gently thumped shut. Mycroft’s distinctive tread, though slower and heavier than usual, echoed up to the Baker Street sitting room and for once Sherlock was glad of his brother’s presence. In an attempt to hide his restlessness and uncertainty, nothing more, Sherlock threw himself into his armchair a moment before Mycroft stepped through the flat’s door. In Mycroft’s right hand was a small packaging box and in his arms was a woven wicker basket, bringing with it the smell of home-cooking, heavy enough that the man’s ubiquitous umbrella was conspicuously absent. Damn. Lack of tapping on the stairs. Sherlock should have noticed.

Sherlock made a moue of distaste to cover his blunder. “What do you want? Hoping to fatten me up as much as you?” he asked nastily. 

Emotion and uncertainty made Sherlock lash out, Mycroft knew. Ignoring the predictable barb, Mycroft moved to place the care package on a kitchen chair, as the table was entirely occupied with lab equipment. 

“Just something to help, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated gently, coming to sit in the red armchair across from his brother. Carefully, he held out the cardboard box, which Sherlock took with equal mindfulness. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether his brother was referring to the food or the package.

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t need your help,” he responded, referring to the food. Based on the weight of the box and the lack of shifting objects (it was well packaged), it contained Sophie’s urn and box of keepsakes, which Sherlock did not wish to take out in Mycroft’s presence. Instead, he gently placed the box on the floor next to his chair. 

“John will appreciate it,” Mycroft countered, smiling tightly. “He won’t be forced to depend upon your cooking.”

Sherlock scowled, looking away. Sherlock could take care of John fine on his own. “There’s nothing wrong with my cooking. It’s simple chemistry, after all.”

“John is used to a more domestic meal, brother mine. Noodles over a Bunsen burner won’t quite cut it.”

“Mary’s… Mary was a sub-par chef at best.” Sherlock cleared his throat and his hands twitched on the armrests to stop himself from crossing his arms defensively. “She was a spy, not a trophy wife.”

Mycroft did not miss Sherlock’s aborted movement. The elder’s sharp gaze scanned the younger’s posture. “I must admit, I’m not entirely sure why you care – the woman shot you. It was only her position in your life that stopped me from taking action against her.”

Sherlock got up abruptly, clasping his hands behind his back and ignoring the tightness of his throat. “Yes, she was rather brilliant in her own way.”

Mycroft watched as Sherlock stalked into the kitchen and stopped to contemplate the two mugs of tea. He sighed at his younger brother’s inability to rest unaffected by emotion. “Something odd showed up on the CCTV footage of the murder,” Mycroft began. “Surely, it must be a glitch, but…” He trailed off as Sherlock tensed.

Back to his brother, Sherlock refused to answer. Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew it wasn’t a glitch. Something had happened. Something _was_ happening. Mary with her dreams, John with his… ability to repel, Mary’s murderess with the ability to kill with a touch… Now that Mycroft had gotten wind of it, he would be insatiable, but Sherlock was not about to let John become Mycroft’s lab rat. Stonily, he remained silent.

Almost as though talking to himself, Mycroft continued: “Equally odd, my assistant admitted to me today to feeling unwell ever since the storm. She seems to receive these ‘impressions’ of people, she says. Like seeing into their souls, she claims. Ridiculous, I know, but I have always trusted Andrea’s judgement. I wouldn’t have believed her, until she mentioned that from John Watson she’d gotten the impression of a protector, of safety. And then on the footage I see the man seemingly throwing up a shield around his loved ones. Such coincidences,” he mused.

Sherlock turned to tinker with some of his petri dishes, their month-old experiments long since been ruined. “You don’t believe in coincidence,” he muttered.

Mycroft continued as if he hadn’t heard. “And one of my agents, Agent Lemming, you know, has been behaving oddly. Just today, after you left with John and Lemming returned without you, he was upset about the failed mission. When he became agitated, I noticed his fingernails seem to lengthen, his teeth to sharpen and his eyes go completely black –”

Losing control of his temper, Sherlock whirled and stalked back into the sitting room. “It was not a _mission_ , Mycroft!” Quickly, he lowered his voice so as not to disturb John upstairs. “Mary was killed and that is not a game, not a strategic move, not a mission. John has lost his daughter, his wife and I don’t even know how…” Sherlock took a ragged breath, fighting desperately against tears. “I don’t know how an insignificant female child could have… without a weapon, with barely a touch!” 

Mycroft observed Sherlock’s break down calmly. When Sherlock paused for a breath, Mycroft spoke up: “Something is changing, brother. We have the girl in custody – ”

“You’ve recruited her, you mean,” Sherlock spat.

“A person with her power and her anger - her mother was killed by a spy nearly seven years ago - is too dangerous to be handled as a usual criminal. Something has happened and England will need you to help deal with it. These seeming… mutations, cannot go unchecked. Your usefulness has not run its course.”

Sherlock contemplated this briefly. This was just another excuse, like the supposed return of Moriarty, to waive the consequences of his murdering Magnussen. Would Sherlock’s actions be overlooked indefinitely? Returning to the present, Sherlock shook his head and didn’t meet his brother’s gaze. “I am not interested in taking any cases on at the moment. I made a promise and I am… I’m needed here.”

Mycroft was silent for several moments. When Sherlock finally looked back at him, Mycroft’s eyes were gentle. “The fifth stage is acceptance, Sherlock.”

Sherlock restricted his surprised response to a blink. Bloody Mycroft, of course he knew what Sherlock was thinking.

“But not everyone reaches it,” Mycroft continued. “Some find themselves stuck with anger or grief for the rest of their lives.”

“How would you know,” Sherlock muttered, leaning with his hip against his armchair. “You don’t feel anything.”

Mycroft hummed, allowing his little brother that misconception. “A pity it’s a skill you never mastered.”

Sherlock’s lips thinned.

“While we’re on the subject of sentiment, is there anything I can do for you? And John?”

_No, get out_ , was Sherlock’s initial reaction. Instead what he said was: “I want Molly Hooper to perform the autopsy.” Molly was the only person he would trust with such a task.

Mycroft nodded as though this were a perfectly normal request. “That can be arranged. Anything else?”

Surprised and a little suspicious of his brother’s generosity, Sherlock shook his head.

“Good. I’ll be taking my leave then.” Getting up, strangely bereft without his umbrella, Mycroft walked towards the flat’s open door. In the doorway, he was stopped by Sherlock’s uncharacteristically small voice.

“What do I do, Mycroft?” 

Such vulnerability Mycroft hadn’t been witness to since he’d left for uni at the age of sixteen. When he’d returned, Sherlock had been harder, surlier. The simple question sent a pang through the Iceman’s heart.

Mycroft turned again to face his little brother, not allowing any pity to show on his face. Sherlock was not looking at him, rather down at his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Give him time. Be there for him. This is not something that can be solved, Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head once and waved a hand to dismiss him. He didn’t look up, but Mycroft suspected why, understood the discomfort of vulnerability. Mycroft just wished Sherlock would trust him enough to show it. Without another word, Mycroft existed the flat, walked down the stairs, left the building and got into the waiting car to return him to his once-again empty house. 

Once his brother was gone, Sherlock’s blurry gaze returned to the two mugs on the counter. Upstairs, movement could be heard. So John had been awake and aware of their visitor, but had decided to hide instead. So unlike John, but Sherlock couldn’t really blame him. Given the chance, Sherlock would usually hide from Mycroft, too. 

The fifth stage was acceptance. But to get there, one could not stay in isolation, in denial. One had to work through the anger, realize the futility of bargaining, conquer the depression. With a sigh, Sherlock walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on and dumped the cold tea in preparation for two fresh mugs. Sherlock and John would drink them together.

***

After John finally admitted a persistent Sherlock into his room, the detective handed his friend a steaming mug of tea and a small plate containing a slice of bread with cheese. With John sitting on the bed and Sherlock on the floor with his back against the wall, they sipped their soothing beverages and John nibbled through half of his meager meal. Once finished, Sherlock collected John’s mug and plate and left his room, closing the door behind him. Not a single word was exchanged throughout. Feeling drowsy, John lay down and drew his bedcovers over him. When his exhausted, numb body finally succumbed to sleep, it was with the pendant, holding his daughter’s ashes and his wife’s memory, clasped tightly in his fist. 


	15. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly hesitated with the scalpel an inch from Mary's cold skin.

Molly hesitated with the scalpel an inch from Mary’s cold skin. She was doing this for Sherlock and John, she reminded herself. No matter how unpleasant, she would do this for them.

Once she’d worked up her nerve, Molly pressed the sharp blade firmly against the pale skin. Effortlessly, like a knife through warm butter, the scalpel sliced through the layers of epidermis, revealing the fat and muscle underneath. The moment the flesh was breached, Molly gasped as a tingle shot from her palm where she touched the scalpel, up her arm, up her neck and along her skull. Images of buildings and a cloudy sky materialized before her eyes. John’s face, terrified and desperate suddenly filled her vision, a consuming despair simultaneously filling her chest, and Molly quickly withdrew her hand. The moment the metal she gripped no longer touched the body, the images stopped.

Molly breathed harshly, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the pervasive emotions. _They’re Mary’s, not yours!_ She reminded herself. But Molly had known Mary, had liked her. _No, you can do this. For Sherlock and John. It’s not as bad as the little boy had been._ Molly grimaced thinking of the body of the six year old boy she’d been assigned a day after the storm. Other than abuse, the police hadn’t been sure what had killed him. When Molly had touched the boy’s wrist, lifting his arm in order to see the bruising pattern, images and sensations had assaulted her. The boy’s terror, his pain as hands held him down, stuffed things down his throat and tore him apart. Molly had screamed and jerked away. The moment her gloved hand had lost contact, the images had stopped. 

This was not nearly as bad. She could do this.

Steeling her resolve, Molly returned the scalpel to the incision and deepened the cut. As the red line lengthened, John’s face, now focused and determined, blurred with what Molly actually saw – the long expanse of exposed skin in front of her. Mary’s love for her husband, her despair, her regret for leaving him, her grief that he wouldn’t be a father, her panic as she failed to draw breath, the strange burning from her insides…it all filled Molly as the mortician worked. It was Mary’s lack of shock, her feeling of acceptance and resignation that caused Molly to falter once again. Mary had known? Mary had predicted her death? What?

 _I’m so sorry, John,_ drifted through Molly’s head, but she wasn’t sure if it was Mary’s thought or her own.

Steadily, Molly continued to work until eventually, bringing with it a feeling of bliss (for the silence) mixed with despair (for the death), Mary’s thoughts dimmed and stopped. Quickly, Molly wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the sleeve of her lab coat. 

Mary had loved John very much. No matter the problems of her past, those feelings had been pure. Molly would mention it to John next time she saw him.

Grateful for her hands that had remained steady, Molly returned scalpel to skin, this time with no invasive thoughts accompanying the motion.

***

Hidden in the nighttime shadows across town, a man waited outside the nearly deserted ice cream shop, leaning against the wall. He huddled into his scarf, which covered the bottom half of his face, and pulled his woolly hat lower over his forehead so that only a strip revealing his eyes was visible. It was winter and revenue was low, so the girl closing shop inside was working alone. When the teenaged girl stepped outside and turned to lock the door behind her, the man quickly swept up behind her and pressed the nozzle of his realistic water pistol into her side. The girl froze with a gasp, her hand gripping the key in the door’s lock.

“Don’t move,” he warned quietly, lowering his voice to sound more threatening. “What’s the code to the safe?” She hesitated, so he jabbed the toy gun harder into her side. 

She whimpered. “Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!” she whispered hoarsely. 

“Good girl. Now, I’m going to put the gun away, but if you move, I’ll smash your head through the window, got it?”

She gave a sob and nodded jerkily.

“Wonderful.” Quickly, he slipped the water pistol into his coat pocket, leaving the handle easily accessible. From his other pocket he pulled out a small roll of duct tape. Quickly, he ripped off a strip and pulled down his scarf so he could press the sticky side over his own mouth. He attempted to open his mouth, but couldn’t, and the only sound he could make was a loud humming. Satisfied, he forced the girl to face him. Her face displayed a mixture of fear and confusion at seeing her attacker rendered mute by his own hand. He dipped his head so he was closer to eye-level with her and then gripped her chin so she wouldn’t break his gaze. 

At first, her eyes darted across his mostly hidden features, but once she looked at his dilating pupils, her gaze was caught. The man’s pupils kept expanding, thinning the ring of brown around them and then seeming to consume the iris. The girl was unable to look away as the blackness kept growing until it filled the entire eye, nothing but bottomless pits boring into her. The man’s grip tightened on her upper arm and suddenly she felt overwhelmingly dizzy. She was gasping as the blackness of the man’s eyes crept outwards, filling her vision until it was all she could see and she jerked, thinking she was about to pass out. The man held her as she panicked and his own vision blurred, then suddenly they both sagged at the same time. 

The man’s body collapsed to the ground while the girl’s body simply stumbled back against the door. “Wow, you’re short,” she muttered. Quickly recovering, the girl knelt and retrieved the fake gun and the duct tape from the man’s pockets. She wrapped the tape securely around the thick wrists to secure his hands before pointing the gun at his head.

“Alright, get up,” she ordered. She made a face at the sound of her voice. “Ugh, weird.”

The man moaned behind the duct tape and looked up. When he saw the gun, he froze, making a panicked noise. Then his eyes shifted to the girl’s face and his eyes widened in horror and shock. He was breathing heavily and scrambled back and to his feet.

The girl smiled at the man. “No worries, love. I’m only borrowing it. Just a tradesies, see?” Lowering the gun, she shoved at the man, pushing him towards his car with the trunk conveniently left wide open. She huffed as she shoved again. “Girls really are weaker than boys, jeez.” Another shove and the man’s body fell into the trunk, his eyes, trained on the girl’s face, still wide and panicked. “I know, it’s weird,” the girl agreed. “Try not to hurt me, alright?” She closed the trunk door. 

Quickly she walked back to the ice cream shop door with the key still protruding from the lock. She unlocked it and stepped inside, heading straight for the small safe under the counter by the till. She tapped in the six digits and opened the safe to pull out the till’s drawer and the container of backup cash. Counting it out, there was only around three hundred pounds, but this was more of a practice run than anything, so she wasn’t discouraged. She pocketed the money, closed and locked the safe, and exited the shop, locking the door behind her. Calmly walking to the car, she ignored the thumping and cries coming from the trunk. She opened the unlocked driver’s door, threw the cash in, then proceeded to open the car trunk to reveal the pale and sobbing man, the duct tape over his mouth ripped off. She reached for him and he jerked away violently.

“Relax, would you? Fine, I won’t touch you. Just, look, I’m putting your key in your pocket, alright?” She tapped the front pocket of the black trousers the girl’s body wore to demonstrate. “Now look into my eyes.” She grinned at the cliché. 

This time it was the girl’s eyes that turned black as they stared at each other. At the exact same moment, their bodies went limp, the girl falling into a heap on the ground while the man relaxed onto his side. 

“Ah, much better,” he muttered, and proceeded to struggle out of the trunk. Still on the ground, the girl sobbed, running her hands over her arms and hair. “It’s all there, not even a bruise,” the man reassured her.

“What did you do to me?” she gasped, looking at her shaking hands.

The man ignored her. He closed the trunk before getting into the driver’s side of his car and awkwardly removing the duct-tape handcuffs with the help of a pair of scissors in the glove compartment. Hands newly freed, he settled into the driver's seat, started the car and put on his seatbelt as the girl hyperventilated on the ground. “Have a nice night!” he called to her and drove off with the stolen money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's everything, friends! If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> While I had initially planned to turn this into series, that doesn't look like it's going to happen - sorry for the weird cliffhanger!


End file.
